FIVE 

ONE-ACT 
COMEDIES 


LAWRENCE 
LANGNER 


•- 


IERKELEY 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  Of 
CALIFORNIA 


FIVE  ONE-ACT  COMEDIES 


FIVE 
ONE-ACT  COMEDIES 


By 
LAWRENCE  LANGNER 


Introduction  by 
ST.  JOHN  ERVINE 


CINCINNATI 

STEWART  KIDD  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1921 
STEWART  KIDD  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


These  plays  are  fully  protected  by  copyright  in  the  United  States, 
Great  Britain  and  Colonies,  and  countries  of  the  Berne  Conven 
tion.  For  permission  to  produce  any  of  these  plays  application 
must  be  made  to  the  author,  who  holds  both  the  professional  and 
amateur  stage  rights,  and  who  may  be  addressed  in  care  oi  the 
publishers,  Stewart  Kidd,  Cincinnati,  Ohio. 


Printed  In  the  United  States  of  America 

THE  CAXTON  PRESS 
"Everybody  for  Books."   This  is  one  of  the  Interlaken  Library. 


' 

A  s*J  a. 
Ps 


TO 
ESTELLE  LANGNER 


I  wish  to  thank  my  friend  Philip  Moeller,  of  the  Theatre  Guild  of 

New  York,  who  produced  most  of  these  plays,  for  his  helpful 

advice  and  suggestions. 


084 


CONTENTS 

Page 

PREFACE       ....    * 9 

MATINATA .     15 

ANOTHER  WAY  OUT 45 

THE  FAMILY  EXIT  . 79 

PIE 107 

LICENSED 141 


PREFACE 

Lawrence  Langner,  the  author  of  these  plays, 
is  a  typical  American:  he  was  born  in  Europe; 
and  like  all  typical  Americans,  he  is  not  happy 
outside  New  York.  If  he  were  a  casual  American, 
one  who  is  American  merely  through  accident  of 
birth,  he  would  probably  prefer  to  spend  his  time 
in  London  or  Paris,  mugging-up  European  cul 
ture  in  the  hope  that  some  of  it  might  stick 
to  him,  but  since  he  is  a  typical  American  and 
has  wished  for  Americanization  instead  of  hav 
ing  it  wished  on  him,  he  spends  his  time  at  the 
unfashionable  end  of  Fifth  Avenue,  trying  to 
develop  a  culture  which  derives,  not  from  Europe, 
but  from  Cape  Cod.  He  will  not  live  to  see  an 
American  culture  which  does  not  derive  from  the 
Old  World,  but  at  least  he  and  the  group,  whose 
most  interesting  member  is  Mr.  Eugene  O'Neill,* 
are  doing  much  to  make  the  way  easier  for  a  more 
definitely  American  culture  to  establish  itself. 
There  are  obvious  dangers  which  may  overwhelm 
these  pioneers,  such  as  arrogance  and  argumenta- 
tiveness  and  smugness  and  self-satisfaction  and 
a  disproportionate  view  of  things  and,  above  all,  a 
tendency  to  imagine  that  the  new  and  disorderly 
thing  is  better  than  the  orderly  and  old;  but  if 
the  pioneers  have  sound  constitutions,  they  will 
survive  them.  It  is  easier,  perhaps,  for  an  Irish 
man  to  be  aware  of  these  dangers  than  for  anyone 
else  because  he  sees  them  manifested  so  clearly  in 
his  own  country  where  pettifogging  patriotism  has 

9 


PREFACE 


reached  such  a  state  of  sickening  smugness  that 
the  Irish  people,  the  only  people  in  the  world  who 
made  a  profit  out  of  the  War,  thrust  their  aca 
demic  grievances  upon  the  consideration  of  a 
wounded  world  as  if  they  were  of  greater  im 
portance  than  those  of  the  rest  of  humanity  put 
together.  Millions  of  Austrians  and  Russians 
may  die  of  starvation  and  infectious  disease; 
the  whole  of  Central  Europe  may  sink  into  misery 
and  ruin,  while  the  rest  of  Europe  wonders  how 
long  it  can  manage  to  keep  up  appearances;  but 
none  of  these  things  matter  to  Ireland,  which 
behaved  during  the  War  like  an  hysterical  woman 
who  should  rush  into  the  presence  of  a  man  bleed 
ing  to  death  and  exclaim,  "My  God,  I've  got  a 
toothache!" 

These  plays  deal  with  the  problem  of  marriage 
and  the  problem  of  family  life,  and  are  the  kind 
of  plays  which  are  only  written  by  a  man  who  is 
happily  married  and  peculiarly  responsive  to  the 
ties  of  kindred.  The  thesis  of  them  is  the  quite 
admirable  one  that  the  ceremony  of  marriage  is 
not  a  sort  of  yardstick  by  which  we  can  accurately 
measure  human  relationships.  I  do  not  know  how 
many  persons  there  are  in  the  world  who  look 
upon  the  institution  of  marriage  as  a  rigid  mould 
into  which  all  sorts  of  couples  can  be  poured  in  the 
sure  and  certain  hope  that  they  will  be  equally 
comfortable  in  it;  but  I  doubt  whether  the  number 
is  large.  We  may  prettify  the  ceremony  of  mar 
riage  by  calling  it  a  sacrament  indissoluble  ex 
cept  by  death,  but  we  do  not  allow  the  prettiness 
of  that  idea  to  prevent  us  from  making  allowance 
for  the  contingency  of  divorce.  The  accumulated 

10 


PREFACE 


experience  of  mankind  shows  that  some  sort  of 
legal  regulation  of  marriage  is  necessary  if  we  are 
to  get  through  the  business  of  existence  without 
being  harassed  by  the  details  of  it.  The  rule  of  the 
road  was  made,  not  to  annoy  and  hamper  people, 
but  to  enable  all  of  us,  the  slow  and  swift,  to  get 
to  our  destination  with  as  little  misadventure  as 
possible;  and  so  far  is  it  from  limiting  the  swift 
to  the  pace  of  the  slow  that  it  actually  enables 
the  swift  to  get  ahead  of  the  slow  without  in 
flicting  hardship  on  the  latter.  If  there  were 
no  rule  of  the  road,  traffic  would  not  be  in  progres 
sion,  but  in  collision.  What  is  true  of  the  rule  of 
the  road  is  equally  true  of  the  institution  of  mar 
riage,  and  all  the  complaints  that  are  made  of 
it,  such,  for  example  as  are  made  of  it  in  these 
plays,  are  really  complaints  about  the  per 
sons  who  are  parties  to  it  rather  than  complaints 
about  the  thing  itself.  The  free  lovers  in  Another 
Way  Out  would  not  be  living  any  more  or  less 
happily  in  the  bonds  of  matrimony  than  they  are 
in  the  bonds  of  unlegalized  marriage.  I  have 
heard  of  couples,  living,  as  the  technical  term  goes, 
in  sin,  who  quarrel  as  frequently  and  as  bitterly 
as  any  couple  that  ever  got  themselves  blessed 
by  a  holy  father  in  a  church!  I  can  see  no  way 
of  removing  the  disabilities  of  marriage  otherwise 
than  by  removing  the  human  race  or  by  de- 
sexing  it.  Marriage  is,  and  must  always  be,  a 
makeshift  business  in  which  two  dissimilar  per 
sons  agree  to  put  up  a  decent  pretence  of  identical 
desires  and  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job  by 
being  as  tolerant  of  each  other  as  they  can.  It  is 
a  terrible  strain  on  a  man  to  live  with  a  woman: 

ii 


PREFACE 


it  is  an  equally  terrible  strain  on  a  woman  to  live 
with  a  man;  and  resonable  recognition  of  that  fact 
will  make  the  relationship  of  husband  and  wife 
a  fairly  endurable  one.  But  the  difficulties  in 
the  way  of  making  the  relationship  tolerable  are 
not  to  be  overcome  by  the  hocus-pocus  of  mysti 
cism  or  materialism.  The  priest  who  tries  to  per 
suade  us  to  believe  that  marriage  is  a  sort  of 
magical  rite  whereby  discordant  elements  are 
made  completely  accordant  is  not  any  sillier  than 
the  Greenwich  Villager  who  tries  to  persuade  us 
that  we  have  only  got  to  dispense  with  the  mar 
riage  ceremony  altogether  in  order  to  achieve 
happiness.  I  remember,  when  I  was  in  New  York, 
.  meeting  some  very  clever  women  who  were  found 
ing  a  society  to  persuade  married  women  to  retain 
their  maiden  names.  They  said  that  it  was  de 
grading  to  a  woman  to  abandon  her  maiden  name 
in  favor  of  that  of  her  husband,  and  they  appealed 
to  women  to  assert  their  individuality,  which 
consisted,  seemingly,  in  the  maiden  name.  Mrs. 
John  Jones  was  much  less  of  an  individual  than 
Miss  Maggie  Smith!  I  suggested  to  my  friends 
that  they  were  making  a  great  deal  of  pother 
about  nothing.  Apart  from  the  social  convenience 
of  a  man  and  a  woman  who  share  the  same  bed 
sharing  the  same  name — for  it  must  surely  be  a 
little  awkward  when  Mr.  John  Jones  and  Miss 
Maggie  Smith  turn  up  at  an  hotel  and  ask  for 
a  room  for  the  night — I  failed  to  see  why  it  was 
degrading  for  a  woman  to  bear  the  name  of  the 
man  to  whom  she  was  willing  to  bear  children, 
particularly  as  she  had  chosen  him  of  her  own  free 
will,  and  not  degrading  to  bear  the  name  of  her 

12 


PREFACE 

father  whom  she  had  not  chosen,  whom,  indeed, 
she  might  prefer  to  be  without.  A  great  deal 
of  the  intellectual  revolt  against  convention  is 
very  like  that,  and  the  only  safe  and  comforting 
rule  of  conduct  for  all  of  us  is  the  belief  that  in 
stitutions  which  have  survived  centuries  of  ex 
perience  are,  on  the  whole,  good  institutions; 
for  mankind  has  an  extraordinary  capacity  for 
getting  rid  of  customs  and  manners  which  are 
useless  to  it. 

As  to  the  plays  themselves,  considered  as  plays 
and  not  as  arguments,  I  find  in  them  a  sense  of 
comedy  which  is  concerned  more  with  situations 
than  with  people.  I  have  seen  one  of  them  per 
formed,  the  jolly  little  play,  called  Pie>  in  which 
Langner's  incorrigible  domesticity  is  manifested, 
and  it  came  over  the  footlights  naturally  and  easily, 
rousing  laughter  and  interest.  I  feel  that  each  of 
the  other  plays  will  act  as  well  as  Pie  did. 

In  case  anyone  reading  this  preface  and  then 
reading  the  plays,  imagines  that  Langner  is  a 
sort  of  cut-throat  with  a  mania  for  tearing  things 
to  pieces,  I  would  like  to  add  that,  in  addition  to 
being  a  typical  American,  he  is  a  man  of  morbidly 
respectable  character,  leading  a  life  of  such  hum 
drum  convention  that  the  goings-on  at  a  Methodist 
tea  party  seem  orgiastic  in  comparison  with  it. 
His  career  when  set  out  might  be  used  by  the 
younger  Rockefeller  as  an  example  to  the  mem 
bers  of  his  Bible  class.  He  is  conventionally  and 
happily  married;  he  is  conventionally  and  proudly 
the  father  of  a  charming  daughter;  and  he  is  con 
ventionally  and  irresistibly  conscious  of  family 
ties.  He  is  the  most  conventional  man  I  know, 


PREFACE 


with  a  capacity  for  sentimental  indulgence  which 
makes  me,  another  sentimentalist,  feel  brutal- 
minded  by  comparison.  His  tastes  are  simple  to 
the  point  of  austerity.  He  drinks  so  little  that 
one  feels  he  does  so  only  to  show  his  contempt  for 
prohibition,  that  sign  of  a  servile  race.  If  all  of  us 
consumed  as  little  tobacco  as  he  does,  the  to 
bacco  planters  would  be  ruined  men.  The  only 
defect  in  his  character,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  younger  Rockefeller,  is  that  he  writes  plays 
and  is  associated  with  theatrical  enterprises; 
but  even  in  this  hellish  business,  he  contrives 
to  behave  himself  in  a  way  that  is  considered 
commendable  by  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  for  the  theater 
which  he  helps  to  govern,  the  Garrick,  in  West 
35th  Street,  where  the  Theater  Guild  of  New  York 
has  its  home,  is  the  only  intellectual  theater  in 
the  world  which  is  a  commercial  success. 

ST.  JOHN  ERVINE. 
London,  November,  1921. 


MATINATA 

A  COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 


MATINATA*  was  first  produced  by  the  Provincetown 
Players  November  i,  1920,  at  the  Playwrights'  The 
atre,  New  York,  with  the  following  cast: 

COLUMBINE  NORMA  MILLAY 

PIERROT  JAMES  LIGHT 

HARLEQUIN  SYDNEY  POWELL 

*  Owing  to  the  general  mispronunciation  of  the  original  title, 
"Mattinata,"  I  have  anglicized  the  spelling  of  the  Italian  word. 


COPYRIGHT,  1921 

BY  LAWRENCE  LANGNER 

All  Rights  Reserved 


MATINATA 

(A   MORNING   SONG) 
SCENE 

A  small  room  in  a  large  city,  in  which  Pierrot 
and  Columbine  make  their  home.  The  room  is 
neither  kitchen ,  bedroom ,  nor  living-room;  but 
it  serves  as  all  three;  it  is,  in  fact,  a  room  of  a  char 
acter  which  is  denied  to  the  rich. 

There  is  a  bed-couch,  left  front;  door  leading  to 
the  bathroom,  left  rear;  window,  left  center  wall, 
bed-couch  against  center  wall;  kitchen  sink  and 
gas  stove,  right  center  wall;  cupboard  with  dishes 
and  chest  of  drawers  against  right  wall  rear;  and 
door  leading  to  staircase  to  street,  right  front. 
In  the  center  are  a  small  table  and  a  few  chairs. 

Pierrot  is  in  bed;  his  head  lies  near  the  window. 
Columbine  is  bustling  around,  setting  the  table  on 
which  she  has  already  placed  some  of  the  breakfast 
dishes. 

COLUMBINE  (to  Pierrot) 

Breakfast  is  nearly  ready,  Pierrot!  Do  wake 
up.  (Pierrot  takes  no  notice.  Columbine  goes 
over  to  sit  on  the  bed.)  Don't  you  want  some 
coffee?  (Pierrot  grunts.)  I'm  making  a  lovely 
breakfast  for  you,  Pierrot. 

PIERROT  (sleepily) 

All  right,  dear!  I'm  getting  up.  (She  waits 
expectantly;  he  rolls  over  and  goes  back  to  sleep.) 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

COLUMBINE 

I'm  going  to  stay  here  and  bother  you  until 
you  get  up!  See!  I'm  a  mosquito!  I'm  buzzing 
around  you!  Buzz,  buzz,  buzz!!!  (She  kisses 
him.)  I'm  going  to  bite  you!  (She  attempts 
to  bite  him.) 
PIERROT 

Do  go  away,  dear!  Can't  you  see  I'm  making 
up  my  mind  to  get  up?  It  takes  time.  (He 
turns  over  so  that  his  head  is  covered  up,  and  all 
one  can  see  of  him  is  his  hunched-up  back.) 

COLUMBINE 

You'll  never  make  up  your  mind!  You  know 
you've  lots  of  things  to  do  today.  Please  get 
up,  Pierrot!  Please  do!  (She  begins  to  pull  the 
bedclothes  of  him.) 

PIERROT 

Do  leave  me  alone!    I'm  getting  up.    (He  winds 

the  covers  around  him.) 
COLUM'BINE 

But   breakfast! 

PIERROT 

I  don't  want  any  breakfast.  (He  settles  down 
in  the  bed  in  a  determined  manner?) 

COLUMBINE  (hurt) 

Very  well! 

(She  goes  over  to  the  gas  stove  and  pours  hot 
water  into  the  coffee-pot.  She  looks  over  at 
Pierrot  to  see  whether  her  new  attitude  will 
make  any  difference.  It  does  not.  She  pulls 
up  the  blinds.  She  puts  the  coffee-pot  on  the  table 
with  a  thud  and  sits  down,  moving  her  chair 
18 


MATINATA 


noisily.  She  pours  herself  a  cup  of  coffee.  Pier 
rot  raises  his  head.) 

PIERROT  (cheerfully) 
Hello! 

(Columbine  drinks  her  coffee  with  great  intensity.) 

PIERROT  (shouting) 

Didn't  you  hear  what  I  said? 
COLUMBINE  (coldly) 

What  did  you  say? 

PIERROT 

I  said,  "Hello!" 

COLUMBINE 

IVe  heard  you  say  that  before.    Do  you  know 
what  time  it  is? 
PIERROT 
No! 

COLUMBINE 

It's  nearly  eleven  o'clock. 

PIERROT 

Now,  why  did  you  tell  me  that?    IVe  slept  only 
—let  me  see — six  hours.    You're  very  irritating! 
COLUMBINE 
I  meant  to  be. 

PIERROT 

Very  well.  I  shall  go  back  to  sleep.  (He  lies 
back  on  the  bed.) 

COLUMBINE 

I  don't  care.  Your  company  isn't  so  charming, 
after  all. 

PIERROT 

I  have  a  lovely  idea  for  a  song.  If  I  could  write 
it,  I  might  be  able  to  sell  it  for  a  hundred  dol 
lars. 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

COLUMBINE 

If  only  you  could! 

PIERROT 

What  couldn't  we  do  with  a  hundred  dollars! 
I  know!  We  could  go  to  a  hotel  and  have  break 
fast,  lunch,  and  dinner  served  in  our  room  so 
we  could  stay  in  bed  all  day.  I  wish  I  could  re 
member  that  song.  Confound  you,  Columbine, 
why  did  you  bother  me!  I  was  half  dream 
ing  of  it — and  now  youVe  made  me  forget  it. 
(He  sits  up.)  It  was  a  song  to  the  dawn — 
"Matinata"! 

COLUMBINE 

What  do  you  know  about  the  dawn? 

PIERROT 

There  is  a  great  mystery  about  the  dawn.  It  is 

seen   only   by  people  with  very  good  habits, 

or  by  people  with  very  bad  habits. 
COLUMBINE 

It  isn't  difficult  to  see  where  you  belong! 
PIERROT 

Isn't  it?    Well,  I've  never  seen  the  dawn — that 

is,  not  for  years! 
COLUMBINE 

You  were  out  all  night  last  Monday.     Didn't 

you  see  it  then  ? 
PIERROT 

No,  I  was  playing  poker.    I  think  I  shall  get  up. 

COLUMBINE 

I've  finished  my  breakfast. 
PIERROT 

Isn't  that  fine!    Just  in  time  to  get  me  mine! 

COLUMBINE 

I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort. 
20 


MATINATA 


PIERROT  (pleading) 

But,  Columbine,  dear!  I'm  so  hungry.  I've 
had  nothing  to  eat  since  two  o'clock — and  now 
it's  eleven. 

COLUMBINE 
You  should  have  gotten  up  when  I  called  you! 

PIERROT 

My  Columbine  angry  with  me?  Don't  be 
angry,  sweetheart.  Your  mouth  is  like  a  red 
rosebud  when  you  smile — but  when  you're 
angry  it  gets  thin,  like  a  long,  red  worm. 

COLUMBINE 

Ugh!  How  can  you  say  my  mouth's  like  a 
worm ! 

PIERROT  (struck  with  the  thought) 
A  worm  may  hide  in  the  reddest  rose! 

COLUMBINE 

I'm  angry  with  you! 

PIERROT 

I  didn't  say  your  mouth  was  like  that.  (Gaily) 
I  meant  I  wanted  you  to  smile — to  be  happy. 
It's  morning,  the  sun  is  up! 

COLUMBINE 
It's  been  up  for  hours. 

PIERROT  (gaily  jumping  out  of  bed) 
And  so  am  I!  Here  is  your  penitent  Pierrot! 
If  you'll  only  forgive  me,  I'll  go  to  bed  early, 
sleep  all  night,  get  up  with  the  dawn,  and  bring 
you  your  breakfast  in  bed!  Won't  you  like 
that  ?  (He  takes  ojf  his  pyjama  jacket,  disclosing 
his  costume  underneath.) 

COLUMBINE 

It  would  be  lovely — but  it'll  never  happen! 
Goodness  me,  you've  slept  in  your  clothes! 

21 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

PIERROT 

Yes,  I  was  too  tired  to  take  them  off.  Do  they 
look  bad  ? 

COLUMBINE 

The  coat's  creased  terribly.  I  shall  have  to 
put  the  iron  on.  You  can't  go  out  looking  like 
that!  (She  goes  over  to  the  stove  and  puts  on  an 
iron.) 

PIERROT  (pulling  on  his  stockings) 

Columbine,  you  are  a  dear!  I  don't  deserve  you. 
I  know  I  don't.  (He  looks  around  helplessly.) 
Where  are  my  shoes? 

COLUMBINE 

I  don't  know.  I  didn't  take  them  off.  Look 
where  you  least  expect  to  find  them. 

(Pierrot  looks  in  his  bed,  under  his  pillow,  and 
finally  under  the  bed,  where  he  finds  them.) 

PIERROT 
What  are  you  going  to  give  me  for  breakfast? 

COLUMBINE 

Would  you  like  boiled  eggs  ? 
PIERROT  (with  disgust) 

Eggs!    Oh,  Columbine,  how  could  you  suggest 

eggs?     I    want   something   dainty,   something 

with  a  French  name,  that  will  waft  its  way 

gently  into  my  insides. 
COLUMBINE 

I  suppose  you've  been  drinking! 
PIERROT 

Not  more  than  was  necessary! 

COLUMBINE 

I'll  make  you  an  omelette. 

22 


MATINATA 


PIERROT 

The  French  name!  And  it  must  be  a  frothy 
one — clusters  of  air  bubbles  coated  with  egg! 

COLUMBINE   (sighing) 
I  shall  have  to  dirty  three  extra  dishes. 

PIERROT 

That  makes  me  think  of  something.  I  know! 
I  haven't  washed! 

COLUMBINE  (breaking  the  eggs  into  a  dish) 

Hurry,  please!  You'll  begin  to  dress  yourself 
just  when  I  have  everything  ready  for  you. 

PIERROT 

Don't  hurry  me,  Columbine.  There  should  be 
something  dignified  about  the  way  a  man  pre 
pares  himself  for  the  day.  If  he  hurries  and 
skurries,  it  makes  him  fretful  and  nervous.  A 
great  opportunity  may  come  to  me  today,  if  I 
preserve  a  calm  in  my  soul.  Would  you  have 
me  miss  it,  just  so  as  not  to  keep  breakfast 
waiting  for  a  few  moments  ? 

COLUMBINE 

But  you  said  you  were  hungry ! 

PIERROT 

I  am  hungry.  (Rises.)  But  I  have  a  dignified 
hunger.  I  shall  enter  the  bathroom  with  a 
stately  air.  Thus  shall  I  begin  the  day  and  so 
shall  I  end  it.  (Pierrot  goes  into  the  bathroom.) 

(Columbine  sighs,  takes  the  egg-beater,  mixes  the 
omelette  and  pours  it  into  a  pan.  She  puts  the 
coffee-pot  back  on  the  stove.  Enter  Pierrot, 
mopping  his  face  with  a  towel.  He  dries  it,  then 
stands  up  and  exercises  listlessly  for  a  few 
moments,  using  knife  and  fork  as  dumb-bells. 
23 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

He  then  tries  rising  up  and  down,  hands  on  hipsy 
body  stiff;  gets  down  but  fails  to  rise;  he  staggers 
up.  He  repeats  this  twice  >  and  finally  Jails  into 
a  chair  at  the  table.) 

PIERROT 

Well!   Where's   the  omelette? 

COLUMBINE 

It  isn't  ready  yet. 

PIERROT 
I'm  hungry. 

COLUMBINE 

Eat  some  bread. 

PIERROT 

Where  is  it? 

COLUMBINE 

Over  here. 

PIERROT 

Well,  why  don't  you  bring  it  to  me? 

COLUMBINE 

Can't  you  get  it  yourself? 

PIERROT 

Don't  you  see  I'm  sitting  down  to  my  break 
fast?      You've    been    hurrying   me    the   whole 
morning,  and  now  I'm  here  it  isn't  ready — . 
COLUMBINE 

It  is  ready.     See,  the  omelette  is  done.     (She 
puts  it  on  his  plate) 

PIERROT 

Where's  the  salt? 

COLUMBINE 

Here  you  are! 

24 


MATINATA 


PIERROT 

And  the  bread.    Do  bring  the  bread! 
(She  hands  him  the  bread.) 

COLUMBINE 

You  are  bad  tempered  this  morning. 
PIERROT 

I'm  not.     (He  eats  the  omelette  ravenously.) 
COLUMBINE  (sitting  at  the  table) 

Do  you  like  the  omelette? 
PIERROT 

It's  all  right.    I  nearly  had  that  song.    Listen: — 
"Rose-colored  Dawn, 
My  heart's  forlorn- 
Do  you  like  that? 
COLUMBINE 

I  don't.    First  of  all,  a  dawn's  not  rose-colored; 

and,  secondly,  the  idea's  absolutely  unoriginal! 
PIERROT 

You  do  tell  the  truth  terribly! 

COLUMBINE 

You  need  someone  to  tell  you  the  truth. 

PIERROT 

Those  weren't  the  words  I  was  thinking  of 
in  bed.  If  you  don't  like  them,  it's  your  own 
fault  for  waking  me  up.  What  I  said  just  now 
was  inspired  by  the  omelette. 

COLUMBINE 

Don't  be  stupid,  Pierrot.  If  I  waked  you  up, 
it  was  because  I  had  to.  I've  worked  all  the 
week  and  now  it's  your  turn.  There  isn't  a 
thing  in  the  place  to  eat. 

PIERROT 
Wouldn't  it  be  wonderful  if  we  could  school 

25 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

ourselves  to  live  without  food;  one  could  do  it 

gradually.     After   all,   material    functions   are 

merely  matters  of  habit. 
COLUMBINE 

I  wish  you'd  get  the  habit  of  working! 
PIERROT  (hopelessly) 

Oh,  dear!    (He  stretches.) 

COLUMBINE 

You  kicked  me — right  on  the  leg! 
PIERROT  (indifferently) 
Did  I? 

COLUMBINE 

Yes.    You  might  say  you're  sorry. 
PIERROT  (sharply) 

I  suppose  I  am  sorry.    Is  it  necessary  to  say  so? 
COLUMBINE  (indignantly) 

It  certainly  is! 
PIERROT  (equally  indignant) 

I  might  say  equally,  why  did  you  have  your  leg 

in  my  way?    My  desire  to  stretch  was  frustrated 

— and  by  your  leg! 

COLUMBINE 

Do  you  mean  you're  not  sorry? 

PIERROT 

I  mean  that  if  your  leg  hadn't  been  there,  I 

wouldn't  have  kicked  it. 
COLUMBINE  (angrily) 

Where  should  I  put  my  leg? 
PIERROT  (more  angrily  still) 

Somewhere  where  it  wouldn't  be  in  my  way! 
COLUMBINE  (rising) 

Look  here,  Pierrot,  I've  just  about  had  enough 

of  you.    You  don't  care  what  you  do,  or  what 


you  say! 


26 


MATINATA 


PIERROT  (angrily) 

I  suppose  I  don't!    Well,  I'm  going.     (He  puts 

on  his  hat.) 
COLUMBINE  (alarmed) 

Where  are  you  going? 
PIERROT  (bitterly) 

To  work.    To  sell  my  immortality  for  a  mess  of 

pottage. 
COLUMBINE 

But  I  haven't  ironed  your  coat — it  is  all  creased. 

You  look  disreputable. 
PIERROT 

I  don't  care  how  I  look. 

COLUMBINE 

And  you  haven't  finished  your  breakfast. 
PIERROT 
I'm  not  going  to  finish  it. 

(He  goes  out,  slamming  the  door.  Columbine 
sits  at  the  table  and  weeps.  After  a  pause,  enter 
Harlequin.  He  stands  at  the  door.) 

HARLEQUIN  (with  aplomb) 

Good  morning! 
COLUMBINE  (through  her  tears) 

Hello,  Harlequin! 

HARLEQUIN 

Is  that  all  you  say  to  me,  just  "Hello"?    Aren't 
you  glad  to  see  me? 
COLUMBINE  (tearfully) 
Yes,  Harlequin! 

(Harlequin  approaches  her.) 

HARLEQUIN 

What's  the  matter?    You're  crying. 
27 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

COLUMBINE  (tearfully) 
Yes,  Harlequin. 

HARLEQUIN 

Why  are  you  crying?    It's  not  over  me,  is  it? 

COLUMBINE 

No,  Harlequin. 
HARLEQUIN  (disappointed) 
No  ?   Oh !  I  thought  it  was ! 

COLUMBINE 

Why,  Harlequin? 

HARLEQUIN 

Well,  I  know  I  haven't  been  very  nice  to  you 
lately.    But  it's  all  over  now,  Columbine.    Tell 
me  what  you've  been  crying  about. 
COLUMBINE 
I  don't  know. 

(Harlequin  takes  her  hand.) 

HARLEQUIN    (sympathetically) 

Won't  you  tell  Harlequin  ?    Perhaps  he  can  help 
you. 

COLUMBINE 

Oh,  Harlequin,  it's — it's  Pierrot!     (She  weeps 
again.) 

HARLEQUIN 

It's  too  bad,  dear.     Pierrots  are  the  same  the 
world  over.     You  may  thank  your  stars  that 
wherever  there's  a  Pierrot,  you'll  always  find 
a  Harlequin  for  consolation! 
COLUMBINE 

I'd  like  you  to  console  me,  Harlequin,  but  I 
don't  think  it  would  be  right. 

HARLEQUIN 

Oh,  yes  it  would.    Harlequins  are  quite  neces- 
28 


MATINATA 


sary  to  the  world.  The  Pierrots  would  be  quite 
unbearable  without  them.  And  now  tell  me, 
what  has  Pierrot  been  doing? 

COLUMBINE   (tearfully) 

It's  what  he  hasn't  been  doing. 

HARLEQUIN 

Oh!  Neglecting  you! 

COLUMBINE 

Neglecting  himself.  Wasting  his  time.  Going 
to  parties,  staying  up  late,  working  only  when 
he  has  to.  He's  so — so  inefficient  with  him- 
self. 

HARLEQUIN 

Not  with  himself,  Columbine,  but  with  you. 
Columbine  dear,  if  you  were  my  wife,  how  I 
would  devote  myself  to  you!  It  would  be  the 
greatest  pleasure  for  me  to  do  little  things  for 
you,  to  make  your  life  easier,  instead  of  com 
plicating  it  as  Pierrot  does.  You  make  yourself 
a  slave  to  him;  you  spoil  him. 

COLUMBINE 

I  know  I  do.  He  went  away  just  now  and  left 
everything  for  me  to  do.  The  dishes  aren't 
washed,  the  beds  aren't  made.  He  didn't  get 
up  till  eleven  o'clock! 

HARLEQUIN 

Eleven  o'clock!  (With  immense  satisfaction.) 
I've  been  up  since  five.  What  a  way  to  treat 
you!  Well,  dear,  I  shall  help  you.  Nobody  can 
call  me  inefficient! 

COLUMBINE 

How  I  wish  Pierrot  had  some  of  your  qualities! 
29 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

HARLEQUIN  (with  still  more  satisfaction) 
He  never  will  have.  (Jumps  up.)    Shall  we  be 
gin? 

COLUMBINE 
Begin  what? 

HARLEQUIN 

Tidying  up.    I  hate  to  sit  in  a  room  that's  dis 
orderly. 
COLUMBINE  (coaxing) 

Oh,  let's  talk  for  a  while.  I  don't  feel  like  tidy 
ing  up  yet. 

HARLEQUIN 

Don't  you  move!    You  stay  right  there.     I'll 
do  it.     You've  worked  enough  this  morning. 
COLUMBINE  (catches  his  arm) 

You  are  a  dear  to  want  to  help  me. 

HARLEQUIN 

There  isn't  anything  I  wouldn't  do  for  you. 
Columbine.  (He  bends  his  head  down  to  her 
and  kisses  her.) 

COLUMBINE  (with  a  little  cry  of  pleasure) 
Oh,  Harlequin! 

HARLEQUIN  (taking  her  hand) 

Columbine,  dear,  I  love  you.  It's  breaking 
my  heart  to  see  you  so  unhappy,  to  see  your 
dear  hands  so  hardened  and  stained  by  working 
and  scrubbing  for  Pierrot,  who  doesn't  ap 
preciate  you  the  very  least  little  bit. 

COLUMBINE    (weeps) 
It's  true.    He  doesn't. 

HARLEQUIN 

He  stays  out  night  after  night,  drinking  and 
gambling,  and  when  he's  so  tired  that  he  can  do 
nothing  else,  he  comes  back  to  you  and  offers 

3° 


MATINATA 


you  the  dregs  of  himself.     Columbine,  you  are 
too  wonderful   to   be  wasted  on   such  a  man. 
COLUMBINE  (weepingly) 
I  am !    I  know  I  am ! 

HARLEQUIN 

Then  leave  him ! 
COLUMBINE  (amazed) 
Leave  him? 

HARLEQUIN 

Yes,  come  with  me. 
COLUMBINE  (enthusiastically) 
Oh — an   elopement! 

HARLEQUIN 

This  wouldn't  be  an  elopement  exactly.     We 
should  have  to  go  through  the  form  of  a  legal 
separation. 
COLUMBINE  (disappointed) 

But   an   elopement!     I've   always   wanted   an 
elopement! 

HARLEQUIN 

I  know,  dear,  but  you  must  really  leave  this  to 

me.  An  elopement  is  very  romantic  and  all  that, 

but  a  legal  separation  is  really  the  most  sensible 

way  of  doing  it. 
COLUMBINE  (pouting) 

Very  well,  if  you  say  so.     I'm  not  sure  I'm 

very  keen  about  a  legal  separation.    It  sounds 

so — so — 
HARLEQUIN    (interrupting) 

Practical.    And  that's  just  what  it  is. 
COLUMBINE    (admiringly) 

You  are  practical,  Harlequin.    What  do  I  have 

to  do? 

31 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

HARLEQUIN 

Sit  right  down  and  leave  everything  to  me.     I 
shall  attend  to  every  detail. 
COLUMBINE 

You  are  a  dear,  Harlequin.  (She  sits  down  on  a 
chair  by  the  tabled)  Kiss  me,  sweetheart. 

(Harlequin  bends  over  and  kisses  her.) 

HARLEQUIN  (still  bending  over  her) 
This  isn't  very  comfortable. 

COLUMBINE  (rising) 

You  sit  here  and  let  me  sit  on  your  lap.  (Harle 
quin  sits  down,  and  she  sits  on  his  knee.}  Tell  me, 
Harlequin,  how  was  it  you  came  to  fall  in  love 
with  me? 

HARLEQUIN  (starting) 

Oh,  dear,  I've  put  my  sleeve  in  the  omelette. 
I'm  covered  with  egg.  Do  you  mind  if  I  clear  off 
the  table? 

(Columbine  jumps  of  his  knee  and  Harlequin 
rises.) 

COLUMBINE  (anxiously) 

Let  me  help  you. 
HARLEQUIN  (wiping  his  sleeve) 

No,  I  can  manage,  dear. 
COLUMBINE 

But,  Harlequin! 

HARLEQUIN 

But,  Columbine! 

COLUMBINE 

Oh,  very  well.     (She  sits  down.) 

HARLEQUIN 

I'll  clear  them  all  off  in  a  second. 

32 


MATINATA 


(He  piles  all  the  dishes  on  one  arm,  and  in  a  few 
seconds  has  carried  them  all  off,  like  an  expert 
waiter^ 

COLUMBINE  (admiringly) 

How  clever  you  are.  Harlequin! 

HARLEQUIN 

While  I'm  up,  I  think  I'll  fix  the  beds. 

COLUMBINE 

But,  Harlequin,  what  about  the  elopement? 
HARLEQUIN  (rather  sharply) 

The  legal  separation? 
COLUMBINE 

Yes,  when  shall  we  get  started? 

HARLEQUIN 

When  will  Pierrot  return  ? 

COLUMBINE 

I  don't  know. 

HARLEQUIN 

Didn't  you  ask  him,  dear? 

COLUMBINE 

No! 

HARLEQUIN 

That  was  rather  thoughtless  of  you. 

COLUMBINE 

But,  Harlequin,  I  didn't  know  we  were  going  to 
elope  when  he  left  this  morning. 

HARLEQUIN 

Of  course,  you  didn't,  but  on  general  principles, 
if  you're  living  with  a  person  constantly,  Colum 
bine,  you  ought  to  know  just  about  what  his 
habits  are,  and  how  long  he  may  be  expected  to 
be  away. 

33 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

COLUMBINE 

But  Pierrot  has  no  habits. 

HARLEQUIN 

That's  true.    I  suppose  you'd  better  get  packed, 
so  we  can  leave  before  he  returns.     Where  is 
your  suitcase,  dear? 
COLUMBINE   (pointing) 
Under  the  bed. 

HARLEQUIN  (pulls  OUt  the  SUltcase) 

Lord,  what  a  state  it's  in!    Have  you  a  duster? 

COLUMBINE 

Let  me  do  it. 

HARLEQUIN 

Please,  Columbine.    Tell  me  where  you  keep  the 
duster. 

COLUMBINE 

Please  let  me  do  it. 

HARLEQUIN 

Now,  Columbine,  didn't  you  say  you'd  leave 
everything  to  me? 

COLUMBINE 

But  I  want  to  do  it! 

HARLEQUIN 

Very  well,  I  know  what  we'll  do.    You  pack  the 
suitcase  and  I'll  tidy  the  room. 

(Columbine  takes  the  suitcase  and  dusts  it  with 
her  handkerchief^) 

HARLEQUIN 

Using  your  handkerchief,  dear? 

COLUMBINE 

I  have  no  duster. 

HARLEQUIN 

No  duster? 

34 


MATINATA 


COLUMBINE 

No! 
HARLEQUIN  (expansively) 

When  you  are  living  with  me,  dear,  we  shall  have 
large  piles  of  dusters!  We  shall  have  small, 
striped  ones,  large  tea  cloths,  dishcloths,  towels, 
and  washrags,  and  every  kind  of  brush,  broom, 
and  cleaning  appliance! 

COLUMBINE 

How  wonderful! 
HARLEQUIN  (begins  making  Pierrot 's  bed) 

Does  Pierrot  sleep  in  this  bed? 
COLUMBINE 

Yes. 

HARLEQUIN 

I  thought  so.    Nobody  but  Pierrot  could  stand 
such  sheets. 
COLUMBINE  (alarmed) 
They're  clean,  aren't  they? 

HARLEQUIN 

Yes,  but  cotton,  and  such  cotton!  When  you 
live  with  me,  Columbine,  you  shall  sleep  on  linen. 
What's  this?  (He  takes  out  a  photograph  of 
Columbine  in  a  silver  frame  from  under  the  pillow^) 
COLUMBINE  (taking  the  picture) 
Where  did  you  find  it? 

HARLEQUIN 

Under  his  pillow. 

COLUMBINE 

Silly  Pierrot! 

HARLEQUIN 

Silly's  too  mild  a  name  for  a  lazy  sentimentalist 
like  Pierrot.  Sleeps  with  his  wife's  photograph ! 

35 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

COLUMBINE 

Hadn't  we  better  hurry? 

HARLEQUIN 

We  can't  go  away  and  leave  the  place  untidy — 
though  I  suppose  Pierrot  would  never  notice  it. 

COLUMBINE 

No — I  don't  think  he  would. 

(Columbine  begins  to  bundle  her  underwear  and 
clothes  into  the  suitcase.  Harlequin  continues 
making  up  the  bed.) 

HARLEQUIN  (making  the  bed) 

Do  you  tuck  the  quilt  under  the  mattress  on 
both  sides,  or  only  on  the  left-hand  side? 

COLUMBINE  (carelessly) 
Oh,  any  old  way. 

HARLEQUIN  (dogmatically) 

The  correct  way  is  to  tuck  it  under  on  the  left- 
hand  side  only.  (Columbine  attempts  to  close  the 
suitcase.  Harlequin  sees  her.)  Don't  do  that, 
Columbine.  You're  liable  to  strain  yourself. 
Let  me  do  it.  (Harlequin  begins  to  struggle 
with  the  suitcase  but  fails  to  close  it.)  You  have 
too  much  in  it.  Do  you  mind  if  I  open  it? 

COLUMBINE 

But,  Harlequin,  we  must  hurry.  Pierrot  may 
come  back  any  moment. 

HARLEQUIN 

We  can't  go  away  with  all  your  things  trailing 
out  of  the  suitcase,  dear !    (He  opens  it  and  turns 
to  Columbine  reproachfully.)    Columbine! 
COLUMBINE 

Yes,  it  is  untidy,  isn't  it?    I  was  so  excited  I 
just  pushed  everything  in. 
36 


MATINATA 


HARLEQUIN 

No  wonder  I  couldn't  close  it.  Columbine, 
dear,  just  leave  this  packing  to  me,  will  you? 
Look,  here's  a  magazine-  (He  gives  it  to  her  and 
guides  her  to  a  chair.)  You  sit  down  there  and 
read  it  for  a  few  minutes,  and  I'll  have  your 
suitcase  packed  like  lightning. 

COLUMBINE 

But  I  feel  so  useless ! 

HARLEQUIN  (reproachfully) 
Columbine ! 

COLUMBINE 

I  do. 

HARLEQUIN 

But  you  want  to  go  away  with  me,  don't  you, 
dear? 

COLUMBINE  (dubiously) 
I  suppose  I  do. 

HARLEQUIN 

You  suppose?  Don't  you  know,  Columbine, 
darling? 

COLUMBINE 

Yes,  of  course  I  know. 

HARLEQUIN 

Very  well.  Leave  everything  to  me  and  there 
won't  be  any  hitch. 

(He  begins  packing  up  her  clothes,  which  he  has 
dumped  out  of  the  suitcase  onto  the  floor.  He  is  an 
expert  packer;  everything  is  folded  up  into  the 
tiniest  space.  Columbine  watches  him  appre 
hensively  over  the  top  of  the  magazine.  Harlequin 
begins  to  fold  up  a  very  frilly  nightgown.) 
37 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

COLUMBINE 

Please  don't  look  at  that,  Harlequin! 

HARLEQUIN 

Why  not? 

COLUMBINE 

It  embarrasses  me. 

HARLEQUIN 

I've  seen  loads  of  them. 

COLUMBINE 

Harlequin ! 

HARLEQUIN 

In    shop    windows.      But    isn't    this    rather    a 
stupid  one? 

COLUMBINE 

Pierrot  doesn't  think  so. 

HARLEQUIN 

It  is  rather  stupid,  though.  Look  at  all  that 
frilly  lace  on  the  shoulders!  It  means  that  the 
gown  lasts  half  as  long.  You  are  always  liable 
to  catch  cold  wearing  it.  Then  again,  the 
laundering  is  always  more  difficult  and  conse 
quently  more  expensive,  and  it  often  scratches 
your  skin  when  they  put  too  much  starch  in 
it.  (His  voice  full  of  promise.)  I'll  buy  you  some 
simple,  practical  ones,  without  any  frills  and 
fripperies. 
COLUMBINE 

But  I  like  that  one. 

(Harlequin  has  another  frilly  garment  in  his  hand. 
She  jumps  up  and  takes  it  away  from  him.) 

HARLEQUIN  (amazed) 

Columbine,  you  don't  mean   to    tell    me    you 
wear  those! 

38 


MATINATA 


COLUMBINE    (puzzled) 
Yes,  I  do;  why  not? 

HARLEQUIN 

Goodness  me,  they're  mid- Vic  tori  an.  You  take 
me  back  to  the  days  of  my  grandmother. 

COLUMBINE 

What's  the  matter  with  them? 

HARLEQUIN 

I  shall  have  to  buy  you  an  entirely  new  trous 
seau! 

COLUMBINE 

I  don't  know  that  I  want  a  new  trousseau! 

HARLEQUIN 

Indeed  you  do.  You  need  a  new  dress  badly, 
too.  When  you  live  with  me,  I  shall  work  hard 
and  buy  you  loads  of  wonderful  clothes.  I  shall 
select  them  myself.  I  want  everybody  to  admire 
you  and  say  what  a  faultlessly  dressed  woman 
you  are!  There!  Everything's  in,  and  there's 
room  for  a  whole  lot  more.  Are  you  sure  you 
have  everything? 

COLUMBINE  (putting  on  her  coat  and  hat) 
Quite  sure.    Come  along. 

HARLEQUIN 

Did  you  remember  to  put  in  your  rubbers? 
COLUMBINE  (puzzled) 

Rubbers — on  an  elopement? 

HARLEQUIN 

Yes,  why  not?    It  might  rain. 

COLUMBINE 

Well,  I  won't  put  in  rubbers! 

HARLEQUIN 

If  it  rains,  you'll  take  cold  without  them. 
39 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

COLUMBINE 

I  will  not  take  rubbers. 

HARLEQUIN 

Columbine,  I  insist  on  rubbers. 
COLUMBINE  (sarcastically) 

Very  well,  I  have  no  rubbers.  But  I  have  an 
umbrella — perhaps  you'd  like  me  to  take  that! 

HARLEQUIN 

That  would  be  an  excellent  idea! 
COLUMBINE  (getting  angry) 

And  how  about  a  small  medicine  chest  with 
mustard  plasters,  hot  water  bottles,  and  all  the 
necessary  equipment  for  treating  small  wounds, 
sprains,  bruises,  burns,  and  chapped  hands? 

HARLEQUIN 

Columbine,  I  believe  you  are  angry  with  me. 

COLUMBINE 

Angry  with  you?  No,  Harlequin,  I'm  not  angry 
with  you.  I'm  angry  with  myself.  Imagine 
eloping  with  a  man  who  insists  on  packing 
rubbers  and  an  umbrella.  Oh,  Lord! 

HARLEQUIN 

My  dear,  I'm  simply  trying  to  be  practical! 
COLUMBINE   (scornfully) 

Practical!  Why  haven't  you  brought  a  lawyer 
with  you  ?  Why  haven't  we  signed  the  necessary 
legal  documents?  Why  haven't  you  brought  a 
doctor  in  case  we  have  an  accident,  and  a  trained 
nurse,  and  a  hospital,  and  an  ambulance?  Why 
haven't  you  been  really  practical? 

HARLEQUIN 

Columbine,  you're  making  fun  of  me! 

COLUMBINE 

No,  I'm  not!     If  I  elope,  it  must  be  with  a 
40 


MATINATA 


practical  man,  not  an  amateur.  I  want  him 
to  bring  along  railroad  trains  and  seaside 
hotels  and  ocean  liners ! 

HARLEQUIN 

You  are  making  fun  of  me!  Columbine,  I  shall 
not  go  away  with  you. 

COLUMBINE  (points  to  the  sink) 

How  could  you  go  away  with  me  when  the  dishes 
aren't  washed  ?  (A  noise  is  heard  outside.)  Hist ! 
It's  Pierrot! 

HARLEQUIN 

What  shall  I  do? 

COLUMBINE 

Something  practical ! 

HARLEQUIN 

I'll  hide  in  the  bathroom. 

(Harlequin  goes  off  into  the  bathroom.    Columbine 
takes  off  her  hat  and  coat  and  passes  Harlequin's 
hat  and  walkingstick  into  the  bathroom. 
Enter  Pierrot.   He  carries  a  small  straggling  bunch 
of  flowers.) 

PIERROT  (penitently) 

Columbine,  dear,  these  are  for  you! 
COLUMBINE 

Pierrot,  dear!    (They  embrace.) 
PIERROT 

Forgive  me,  darling! 

COLUMBINE 

There's  nothing  to  forgive,  dearest. 
PIERROT 
I  was  rude  to  you! 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

COLUMBINE 

It  was  my  fault,  Pierrot.  I  had  my  leg  in  your 
way! 

PIERROT 

No,  dearest,  I  was  wrong  in  kicking  my  foot 
against  you!  I  know  I  was.  So  I  went  out  into 
the  fields  and  picked  these  flowers  for  you.  Then 
I  sat  on  the  grass  and  looked  at  them,  and  do 
you  know,  Columbine,  dear,  that  the  song  came 
back  to  me,  the  one  I  was  dreaming  about  when 
you  woke  me  up  this  morning — "Matinata" 
I  called  it — so  I  wrote  it  down  on  a  piece  of 
paper  and  took  it  to  the  song  publishers  and 
would  you  believe  it — they  paid  me  ninety  dol 
lars  and  forty-seven  cents  for  it! 

COLUMBINE    (amazed) 
And  forty-seven  cents! 

PIERROT 

Three  dollars  and  seven  cents  a  line!  Look, 
here's  the  money !  (He  pulls  out  the  roll  of  bills 
and  shows  them  to  her.)  Do  you  know  what 
I'm  going  to  do  with  it?  I'm  going  to  buy  half 
a  dozen  of  the  laciest  of  lace  nighties  for  you! 
The  ones  you  have  are  nearly  worn  out. 

COLUMBINE 

But,  darling,  they  are  so  impractical! 

PIERROT 

They're  beautiful!  And  then  I'm  going  to  bring 
you  half  a  dozen  pairs  of— 

COLUMBINE   (glancing  apprehensively  at  the  bath 
room  door) 
Never  mind,  Pierrot! 

PIERROT 

And  with  the  rest  of  the  money  we'll  go  on  a 
42 


MATINATA 


little  trip  together!     You'll  have  to  pack  your 

suitcase! 
COLUMBINE  (shows  her  suitcase) 

It  is  packed! 
PIERROT 

How  did  you  come  to  do  that  ? 
COLUMBINE  (hesitating,  then  lying  heroically) 

Woman's    intuition!     The   moment    you    said 

those  few  lines  at  the  breakfast  table,  I  just 

knew  the  publisher  would  buy  the  song! 
PIERROT 

Have  you  any  room  for  my  things? 
COLUMBINE  (opens  the  suitcase) 

Lots! 
PIERROT  (admiringly) 

How  neatly  you  packed  it!    Here,  drop  these  in. 

(He  throws  in  some  clothes  and  shuts  the  suitcase, 
stamps  on  it  and  goes  to  the  door,  right.  Columbine 
puts  on  her  hat  and  picks  up  the  suitcase.) 


Columbine,  you  look  charming  in  those  old 
clothes.  People  will  think  we're  eloping! 

(They  kiss.  Pierrot  goes  out.  The  bathroom 
door  opens  and  Harlequin  peeps  through.) 

COLUMBINE  (calls  dowstairs,  looking  at  Harlequin) 
Pierrot,  dear,  shall  I  bring  rubbers  ? 

(Columbine  goes  out.  Enter  Harlequin.  He 
looks  out  of  the  window,  sighs,  goes  over  to  the 
table,  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  begins  to  wash  the 
dishes.) 

CURTAIN 
43 


ANOTHER  WAY  OUT 

A  COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 


ANOTHER  WAY  OUT  was  first  produced  in  November 
1916,  by  the  Washington  Square  Players  at  the 
Comedy  Theatre,  New  York,  with  the  following  cast: 

MARGARET  MARSHALL  GLADYS  WYNNE 

MRS.  ABBEY  JEAN  ROBB 

POMEROY  PENDLETON  JOSE  RUBEN 

BARONESS  DE  MEAUVILLE  HELEN  WESTLEY 

CHARLES  P.  K.  FENTON  ROBERT  STRANGE 


Produced  under  the  direction  of  MR.  PHILIP  MOELLER 


COPYRIGHT,  1916 

BY  LAWRENCE  LANGNER 

All  Rights  Reserved 


ANOTHER  WAY  OUT 

SCENE 

The  studio  in  Pendleton's  apartment.  A  large 
room,  with  skylight  in  center  of  wall,  doors  center, 
right,  and  left,  table  set  for  breakfast;  a  vase  with 
red  flowers  decorates  the  table.  Center  rear  wall, 
in  front  of  skylight,  a  modelling  stand,  upon  which 
is  placed  a  rough  statuette,  covered  with  cloth.  To 
one  side  of  this  is  a  large  screen.  The  furnishings 
are  many-hued,  the  cushions  a  flare  of  color,  and  the 
pictures  fantastically  futuristic. 

Mrs.  Abbey,  a  benevolent-looking,  middle-aged 
woman,  in  neat  clothes  and  apron,  is  arranging 
some  dishes  on  the  table.  Margaret,  a  very  mod 
ern  young  woman,  is  exercising  vigorously.  She 
is  decidedly  good-looking.  Her  eyes  are  direct, 
her  complexion  fresh,  and  her  movements  free. 
Her  brown  hair  is  bobbed,  and  she  wears  a  pic 
turesque  Grecian  robe. 

MRS.  ABBEY 

Breakfast  is  ready,  ma'am. 

(Margaret  sits  at  the  table  and  helps  herself.  Mrs. 
Abbey  goes  out,  left.) 

MARGARET  (calling) 

Pommy,  dear.     Breakfast  is  on  the  table. 

PENDLETON  (from  without) 
I'll  be  there  in  a  moment. 
47 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

(Margaret  glances  through  the  paper;  Pendleton 
enters ^  door  right.  He  is  tall  and  thin,  and  of  ces- 
thetic  appearance.  His  long  blond  hair  is  brushed 
loosely  over  his  forehead  and  he  is  dressed  in  a 
heliotrope  dress  ing  gown.  He  lights  a  cigarette.) 

MARGARET 

I  thought  you  were  going  to  stop  smoking  be 
fore  breakfast. 

PENDLETON 

My  dear,  I  can't  possibly  stand  the  taste  of 
tooth-paste  in  my  mouth  all  day. 

(Pendleton  sits  at  the  table.  Enter  Mrs.  Abbey , 
door  left,  with  a  tray.  Pendleton  helps  himself, 
then  drops  his  knife  and  fork  with  a  clang. 
Mrs.  Abbey  and  Margaret  are  startled.) 

MRS.  ABBEY 

Anything  the  matter,  sir? 

PENDLETON 

Dear,  dear!  My  breakfast  is  quite  spoiled 
again. 

MRS.  ABBEY  (concerned) 
Spoiled,  sir? 

PENDLETON  (pointing  to  the  red  flowers  on  the  break 
fast  table) 

Look  at  those  flowers,  Mrs.  Abbey.  Not  only 
are  they  quite  out  of  harmony  with  the  color 
scheme  of  this  room,  but  they're  positively  red, 
and  you  know  I  have  a  perfect  horror  of  red. 

MRS.  ABBEY 

But  you  like  them  that  color  sometimes, 
sir.  What  am  I  to  do  when  you're  so  tempera 
mental  about  'em. 


ANOTHER    WAY    OUT 


MARGARET 

Temperamental.     I  should  say  bad  tempered. 

MRS.  ABBEY  (soothingly) 

Oh,  no,  ma'am.  It  isn't  bad  temper.  I  under 
stand  Mr.  Pendleton.  It's  just  another  bad 
night  he's  had,  that's  what  it  is. 

PENDLETON  (sarcastically  polite) 

Mrs.  Abbey,  you  appear  to  have  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  how  I  pass  the  nights.  It's  be 
coming  quite  embarrassing. 

MRS.  ABBEY 

You  mustn't  mind  an  old  woman  like  me,  sir. 

(The  sound  of  a  piano,  hopelessly  out  of  tune, 
in  the  apartment  upstairs,  is  heard,  the  player 
banging  out  Mendelssohn *s  Wedding  March  with 
unusual  insistence^) 

PENDLETON 

There!    That  confounded  piano  again! 

MARGARET 

And  they  always  play  the  Wedding  March. 
There  must  be  an  old  maid  living  there. 

MRS.  ABBEY 

They're  doing  that  for  a  reason. 

MARGARET 

What  reason? 

MRS.  ABBEY 

Their  cook  told  me  yesterday  that  her  missus 
thinks  if  she  keeps  on  a-playing  of  the  Wedding 
March,  p'raps  it'll  give  you  an'  Mr.  Pendleton 
the  idea  of  getting  married.  She  don't  believe 
in  couples  livin'  together,  like  you  an*  Mr. 
Pendleton. 

49 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

MARGARET 

No? 

MRS.  ABBEY 

And  I  just  said  you  an'  Mr.  Pendleton  had  been 
living  together  so  long,  it  was  my  opinion  you 
might  just  as  well  be  married  an*  done  with  it. 
MARGARET  (angrily) 

Your  opinion  is  quite  uncalled  for,  Mrs.  Abbey. 

PENDLETON 

Why  shouldn't  Mrs.  Abbey  give  us  her  opinion? 
It  may  be  valuable.  Look  at  her  experiences 
in  matrimony. 

MRS.  ABBEY 

In  matrimony,  and  out  of  it,  too. 

MARGARET    (sitting) 

But  Mrs.  Abbey  has  no  right  to  discuss  our 
affairs  with  other  people's  maids. 

MRS.  ABBEY 

I'll  be  glad  to  quit  if  I  don't  suit  the  mistress. 
MARGARET  (angrily) 

There!  "Mistress"  again!  How  often  have 
I  asked  you  not  to  refer  to  me  as  the  mistress? 

MRS.  ABBEY 

No  offense,  ma'am. 

PENDLETON 

You'd  better  see  if  there's  any  mail,  Mrs.  Abbey, 
and  take  those  flowers  away  with  you. 

MRS.  ABBEY 

Very  well,  sir. 

(Mrs.  Abbey  goes  off,  door  center.) 

MARGARET 

What  an  old-fashioned  point  of  view  Mrs. 
Abbey  has. 

5° 


ANOTHER    WAY    OUT 


(Pendleton  takes  up  the  paper  and  commences  to 
read.) 

MARGARET 

Pommy,  why  do  you  stoop  so  ? 

PENDLETON 

Am  I  stooping? 

MARGARET 

I'm  tired  of  telling  you.  You  ought  to  take 
more  exercise.  (Pendleton  continues  to  read.) 
One  reason  why  the  Greeks  were  the  greatest 
of  artists  was  because  they  cultivated  the  body 
as  carefully  as  the  mind. 

PENDLETON 

Oh!    Hang  the  Greeks! 

(Enter  Mrs.  Abbey,  door  center,  with  letters.) 

MRS.  ABBEY 

These  are  your  letters,  sir.  (Coldly.)  And  these 
are  yours,  ma'am.  (She  goes  off,  left.) 

MARGARET  (who  has  opened  her  letters  meanwhile) 
How  delightful!  Tom  Del  Valli  has  asked  us 
to  a  party  at  his  studio  next  Friday. 

PENDLETON  (opening  his  letters) 
Both  of  us? 

MARGARET  (giving  him  the  letter) 

Yes,  and  Helen  Marsden  wants  us  for  Saturday. 

PENDLETON 

Both  of  us? 
MARGARET  (picking  up  another  letter) 

Yes,  and  here's  one  from  Bobby  Watson  for 
Sunday. 

PENDLETON 

Both  of  us? 

51 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

MARGARET 

Yes. 

PENDLETON 

Really,  Margaret,  this  is  becoming  exasperating. 
(Holds  up  the  letters.)  Here  are  four  more,  I 
suppose  for  both  of  us.  People  keep  on  in 
viting  us  out  together  time  after  time  as  though 
we  were  the  most  conventional  married  couple 
on  God's  earth. 

MARGARET 

Do  you  object  to  going  out  with  me? 

PENDLETON   (doubtfully) 

No,  it  isn't  that.    But  we're  having  too  much 
of  a  good  thing.    .And  I've  come  to  the  conclu 
sion  that  it's  your  fault. 
MARGARET  (indignantly) 

Oh,  it's  my  fault?  Of  course  you'd  blame  me. 
Why? 

PENDLETON 

Because  you  have  such  an  absurd  habit  of 
boasting  to  people  of  your  devotion  to  me, 
when  we're  out. 

MARGARET 

You  surely  don't  expect  me  to  quarrel  with  you 
in  public? 

PENDLETON 

It  isn't  necessary  to  go  to  that  extent.  But 
when  everybody  believes  that  we're  utterly, 
almost  stupidly  in  love  with  one  another,  what 
can  you  expect? 

MARGARET 

You  said  once  you  never  wanted  me  to  sup 
press  anything. 


ANOTHER    WAY    OUT 


PENDLETON 

That  was  before  we  began  to  live  together. 

MARGARET 

What  could  I  have  done? 

PENDLETON 

Anything,  just  so  we  could  have  a  little  more 
freedom,  instead  of  being  tied  to  one  another 
the  way  we  are.  Never  a  moment  when  we're 
not  together,  never  a  day  when  I'm  not  inter 
viewed  by  special  article  writers  from  almost 
every  paper  and  magazine  in  the  country 
as  the  only  successful  exponent  of  the  theory 
that  love  can  be  so  perfect  that  the  marriage 
contract  degrades  it.  I  put  it  up  to  you,  Margaret 
— if  this  is  a  free  union,  it  is  simply  intolerable! 

MARGARET 

But  aren't  we  living  together  so  as  to  have 
more  freedom?  Think  of  what  it  might  be 
if  we  were  married.  Didn't  you  once  write, 
"When  marriage  comes  in  at  the  door,  freedom 
flies  out  at  the  window"? 

PENDLETON 

Are  we  any  better  off,  with  everybody  treating 
us  as  though  we  were  living  together  to  prove 
a  principle? 

MARGARET 

Well,  aren't  we,  incidentally?  You  said  so  your 
self.  We  can  be  a  beautiful  example  to  other 
people,  and  show  them  how  to  lead  the  pure, 
natural  lives  of  the  later  Greeks. 

PENDLETON 

Damn  the  later  Greeks!    Why  do  you  always 
throw  those  confounded  later  Greeks  in  my 
53 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

face?  We've  got  to  look  at  it  from  our  stand 
point.  This  situation  must  come  to  an  end. 

MARGARET 

What  can  we  do? 

PENDLETON 

It  rests  with  you. 

MARGARET 

With  me? 

PENDLETON 

You  can  compromise  yourself  with  somebody 
publicly.  That'll  put  an  end  to  everything. 

MARGARET 

How  will  that  end  it? 

PENDLETON 

It'll  break  down  the  morally  sanctified  atmos 
phere  in  which  we're  living.  Then,  perhaps, 
people  will  regard  us  as  immoral — and  treat  us 
like  decent  human  beings  again. 

MARGARET 

But  I  don't  want  to  compromise  myself. 

PENDLETON 

If  you  believe  in  your  own  ideals,  you  must. 

MARGARET 

But  why  should  I  have  to  do  it? 

PENDLETON 

It  will  be  so  easy  for  you. 

MARGARET 

Why  can't  we  both  be  compromised?  That 
would  be  better  still. 

PENDLETON 

I  should  find  it  a  bore.  You,  unless  my  memory 
fails  me,  would  enjoy  it. 

54 


ANOTHER    WAY    OUT 


MARGARET 

You  needn't  be  cynical.  Even  if  you  don't  en 
joy  it,  you  can  work  it  into  a  novel. 

PENDLETON 

It's  less  exertion  to  imagine  an  affair  of  that 
sort,  and  the  result  would  probably  be  more 
saleable.  Besides  I  have  no  interest  whatsoever 
in  women — at  least,  in  the  women  we  know. 

MARGARET 

For  that  matter,  I  don't  know  any  eligible  men. 

PENDLETON 

What  about  Bob  Lockwood? 

MARGARET 

But  he's  your  best  friend ! 

PENDLETON 

Exactly.  No  man  ever  really  trusts  his  best 
friend.  He'll  probably  compromise  you  without 
compunction. 

MARGARET 

I'm  afraid  he'd  be  too  dangerous;  he  tells  you 
all  his  secrets.  Whom  would  you  choose? 

PENDLETON 

It's  a  matter  of  complete  indifference  to  me. 

MARGARET 

IVe  heard  a  lot  of  queer  stories  about  Jean 
Roberts.    How  would  she  do? 
PENDLETON  (firmly) 

Margaret,  I  don't  mind  being  party  to  a  flirta 
tion — but  I  draw  the  line  at  being  the  victim 
of  a  seduction. 

MARGARET 

Why  not  leave  it  to  chance?  Let  it  be  the 
next  interesting  woman  you  meet. 

55 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

PENDLETON 

That  might  be  amusing.  But  there  must  be 
an  age  limit.  And  how  about  you? 
MARGARET  (takes  the  cloth  off  the  statuette  and  dis 
closes  a  figure  of  Apollo  in  rough  modelling  clay) 
Me!  Why  not  the  new  model  who  is  coming 
today  to  pose  for  my  Apollo? 

PENDLETON 

Well,  if  he's  anything  like  that,  you  ought  to 
be  able  to  create  a  sensation.  Then,  perhaps, 
we  shall  have  some  real  freedom. 

MARGARET 

Pommy,  do  you  still  love  me  as  much  as  you  did  ? 

PENDLETON 

How  you  sentimentalize!  Do  you  think  I'd 
be  willing  to  enter  into  a  flirtation  with  a  strange 
woman,  if  I  didn't  want  to  keep  on  living  with 
you? 

MARGARET 

And  we  won't  have  to  break  up  our  little  home, 
will  we? 

PENDLETON 

No,  anything  to  save  the  home.  (Catches  him 
self.)  My  God!  If  any  of  my  readers  should 
hear  me  sa,y  that!  To  think  that  I,  Pomeroy 
Pendleton,  should  be  trying  to  save  my  own 
home.  And  yet,  how  characteristically  para 
doxical. 
MARGARET  (interrupting) 

You  are  going  to  philosophize!    Give  me  a  kiss. 

(She  goes  to  him,  sits  on  his  lap,  and  places  her 
arm  on  his  shoulder;  he  takes  out  a  cigarette^  she 
lights  it  for  him.) 

56 


ANOTHER    WAY    OUT 


PENDLETON  (brought  back  to  reality) 
I  have  some  work  to  do.    I  must  go. 

MARGARET 

A  kiss! 

PENDLETON  (kisses  her  carelessly) 
There,  let  me  go. 

MARGARET 

I  want  a  real  kiss. 

PENDLETON 

Don't  be  silly,  dear.  I  can't  play  this  morning. 
I've  simply  got  to  finish  my  last  chapter. 

(A  bell  rings.  Mrs.  Abbey  enters  and  goes  to 
the  center  door.) 

MRS.  ABBEY 

There's  a  lady  to  see  Mr.  Pendleton. 

MARGARET 

Tell  her  to  come  in ! 

PENDLETON 

But,  Margaret! 

MARGARET 

Remember!  (Significantly.)  The  first  woman 
you  meet! 

(Margaret  goes  out,  right.  Mrs.  Abbey  enters 
center  with  Baroness  de  Meauville.  Mrs.  Abbey 
goes  out,  left.) 

BARONESS  DE  MEAUVILLE   (speaking  with  a  pro 
nounced  English  accent) 

Good  morning,  Mr.  Pendleton,  I'm  the  Baron 
ess  de  Meauville! 

PENDLETON  (recalling  her  name) 

Baroness  de  Meauville?    Ah,  the  costumer? 
57 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

BARONESS 

Not  a  costumer,  Mr.  Pendleton.  I  am  an  artist, 
an  artist  in  modern  attire.  A  woman  is  to  me  what 
a  canvas  is  to  a  painter. 

PENDLETON 

Excuse  me  for  receiving  you  in  my  dressing 
gown.  I  was  at  work. 

BARONESS 

I  like  to  see  men  in  dressing  gowns — yours  is 

very  charming. 
PENDLETON  {flattered  and  pleased) 

Do  you  like  it?    I  designed  it  myself. 
BARONESS  (looking  seductively  into  his  eyes) 

How  few  really  creative  artists  there  are  in 

America! 
PENDLETON  (modestly) 

You  flatter  me. 

BARONESS 

Not  at  all.  You  must  know  that  I'm  a  great 
admirer  of  yours,  Mr.  Pendleton.  I've  read 
every  one  of  your  books.  I  feel  I  know  you  as 
an  old  friend. 

PENDLETON 

That's  very  nice  of  you! 

( The  baroness  reclines  on  the  couch;  takes  a  jewelled 
cigarette  case  from  her  reticule >  and  offers  Pendleton 
a  cigarette?) 

BARONESS 

Will  you  smoke? 

PENDLETON 

Thanks. 

(fendeton  lights  her  cigarette,  then  his  own.    He 
58 


ANOTHER    WAY    OUT 


draws  his  chair  up  to  the  couch.  An  atmosphere 
of  mutual  interest  is  established.) 

BARONESS 

Mr.  Pendleton,  I  have  a  mission  in  life.  It 
is  to  make  the  American  woman  the  best- 
dressed  woman  in  the  world.  I  came  here  to 
day  because  I  want  you  to  help  me. 

PENDLETON 

But  I  have  no  ambitions  in  that  direction. 

BARONESS 

Why  should  you  have  ambitions?  Only  the 
bourgeoisie  has  ambitions.  We  artists  have 
inspirations.  I  want  to  breathe  into  you  the 
spirit  of  my  great  undertaking.  Already  I  have 
opened  my  place  in  the  smartest  part  of  the 
Avenue.  Already  I  have  drawn  my  assistants 
from  all  parts  of  the  world.  Nothing  is  lacking 
to  complete  my  plans — but  you. 

PENDLETON 

Me?   Why  me? 
BARONESS  (endearingly) 

Are  you  not  considered  one  of  the  foremost  men 

of  letters  in  America? 
PENDLETON  (modestly) 

Didn't  you  say  you  had  read  all  my  books? 

BARONESS 

Are  you  not  the  only  writer  who  has  success 
fully  portrayed  the  emotional  side  of  American 
life? 

PENDLETON  (decidedly) 
Yes. 

59 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

BARONESS 

Exactly.     That  is  why  I  have  chosen  you  to 
write  my  advertisements. 
PENDLETON  (aghast) 
But,  Baroness! 

BARONESS 

You're  not  going  to  say  that.    It's  so  ordinary. 

PENDLETON 

But — but — you  want  me  to  write  advertise 
ments! 

BARONESS 

Please  don't  disappoint  me.  Why,  you  might 
even  evolve  a  new  form  of  literature. 

PENDLETON 

Yes,  I  suppose  that's  so.  But  one  has  a  sense 
of  pride. 

BARONESS 

Art  comes  before  Pride.  Consider  my  feelings, 
an  aristocrat,  coming  here  to  America  and  en 
gaging  in  commerce,  and  advertising,  and  other 
dreadful  things,  and  all  for  the  sake  of  Art! 

PENDLETON 

But  you  make  money  out  of  it! 

BARONESS 

Only  incidentally.  Just  as  you,  in  writing  my 
advertisements,  would  make,  say  ten  thousand 
or  so,  as  a  sort  of  accident.  But  don't  let  us 
talk  of  money.  It's  perfectly  revolting,  isn't 
it?  Art  is  Life,  and  I  believe  in  Life  for  Art's 
sake.  That's  why  I  am  a  success. 

PENDLETON 

Indeed?    How  interesting.     Please  go  on. 

BARONESS 

When  a  woman  comes  to  me  for  a  gown,  I  don't 
60 


ANOTHER    WAY    OUT 


measure  her  body.  Why  should  I?  I  measure 
her  mind.  I  find  her  color  harmony.  In  a 
moment  I  can  tell  whether  she  ought  to  wear 
scarlet,  mauve,  taupe,  magenta,  or  any  other 
color,  so  as  to  fall  into  her  proper  rhythm. 
Everyone  has  a  rhythm,  you  know.  (Pendleton 
sits  on  the  sofa.)  But  I  don't  have  to  explain  all 
this  to  you,  Mr.  Pendleton.  You  understand  it 
intuitively.  This  heliotrope  you  are  wearing 
shows  me  at  once  that  you  are  in  rhythm. 
PENDLETON  (thinking  of  Margaret) 

I'm  not  so  sure  that  I   am.     What  you  say 
interests  me.    May  I  ask  you  a  question? 

BARONESS 

Yes,  but  I  may  not  answer  it. 

PENDLETON 

Why  do  you  wear  heliotrope,  and  the  same  shade 
as  mine? 

BARONESS  (with  mock  mystery) 
You  mustn't  ask  me  that. 

PENDLETON 

I'm  all  curiosity. 

BARONESS 

Curiosity   is   dangerous. 

PENDLETON 

Supposing  I  try  to  find  out. 

BARONESS 

That  may  be  even  more  dangerous. 
PENDLETON  (taking  her  hand) 
I'm  fond  of  that  kind  of  danger. 

BARONESS 

Take  care!     I'm  very  fragile. 
61 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

PENDLETON 

Isn't  heliotrope  in  rhythm  with  the  faint  re 
flection  of  passion? 

BARONESS 

How  brutal  of  you  to  have  said  it. 
PENDLETON  (coming  closer  to  her) 

I,  too,  am  in  rhythm  with  heliotrope. 
BARONESS  (with  joy) 

How  glad  I  am.    Thank  God,  you've  no  desire 

to  kiss  my  lips. 

PENDLETON 

Only  your  finger-tips.  (They  exchange  kisses 
and  finger-tips .)  Your  fingers  are  like  soft,  pale, 
waxen  tapers! 

BARONESS 

Your  kisses  are  the  breathings  that  light  them 
into  quivering  flame! 

PENDLETON 

Exquisite — exquisite ! 
BARONESS  (withdrawing  her  hands) 
That  was  a  moment! 

PENDLETON 

We  must  have  many  such. 

BARONESS 

Many?    That's  too  near  too  much. 
PENDLETON  (fervently) 
We  shall,  dear  lady. 

BARONESS 

How  I  adore  your  writings!    They  have  made 
me  realize  the  beauty  of  an  ideal  union,  the 
love  of  one  man  for  one  woman — at  a  time. 
Let  us  have  such  a  union,  you  and  me. 
PENDLETON   (taken  aback) 

But  I  live  in  such  a  union  already. 
62 


ANOTHER    WAY    OUT 


BARONESS  (horror-stricken) 
What!  You  live  in  such  a  union!  (She  rises.) 
Don't  you  see  what  we've  done?  You  are  liv 
ing  in  one  of  those  wonderful  unions  you  de 
scribe  in  your  books — and  I've  let  you  kiss  me. 
I've  committed  a  sacrilege. 

PENDLETON 

You're   mistaken.      It   isn't   a   sacrilege.     It's 
an   opportunity. 
BARONESS   (dramatically) 

How  can  you  say  that — you,  whose  words  have 
inspired  my  deepest  intimacies.  No,  I  must  go. 
(She  makes  for  the  door,  center.)  I — must — go. 

PENDLETON 

You  don't  understand.  I  exaggerated  every 
thing  so  in  my  confounded  books. 

BARONESS 

Please  ask  her  to  forgive  me.  Please  tell  her 
I  thought  you  were  married,  otherwise,  never, 
never,  would  I  have  permitted  you  to  kiss  me. 

PENDLETON 

What  made  you  think  I  was  married? 

BARONESS 

One  often  believes  what  one  hopes. 

PENDLETON 

You  take  it  too  seriously.     Let  me  explain. 

BARONESS 

What  is  there  to  explain?  Our  experience  has 
been  complete.  Why  spoil  it  by  anti-climax? 

PENDLETON 

Am  I  never  to  see  you  again? 

BARONESS 

Who  knows?  If  your  present  union  should  end, 
and  some  day  your  soul  needs — some  one? 

63 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

(She  goes  out,  door,  center,  her  manner  full  oj 
promise.) 

PENDLETON  (with feeling) 
Goodbye,  long,  pale  fingers. 

(Enter  Margaret,  door,  right.) 

MARGARET 

Did  you  get  a  good  start  with  the  scandal? 

PENDLETON 

Not  exactly.  I  may  as  well  admit  it  was  a  fail 
ure,  through  no  fault  of  mine,  of  course.  And 
now,  I  simply  must  finish  that  last  chapter. 
(He  goes  of.) 

(Margaret  rings.    Mrs.  Abbey  enters.) 

MARGARET 

You  may  clear,  Mrs.  Abbey. 

MRS.  ABBEY 

Very  well,  ma'am.  (She  attends  to  clearing  the 
table.) 

MARGARET 

Mrs.  Abbey,  have  you  worked  for  many  people 
living  together,  like  Mr.  Pendleton  and  myself? 

MRS.  ABBEY 

Lor',  ma'am,  yes.  I've  worked  in  nearly  every 
house  on  the  south  side  of  Washington  Square. 

MARGARET 

Mr.  Pendleton  says  I'm  as  domestic  as  any  wife 
could  be.  Were  the  others  like  me? 

MRS.  ABBEY 

Most  of  them,  ma'am;  but  some  was  regular 
hussies,  not  only  a-livin'  with  their  fellers — 


ANOTHER   WAY   OUT 


but  havin'  a  good  time,  too.  That's  what  I 
call  real  immoral. 

(A  bell  rings.  Mrs.  Abbey  opens  door,  center ',  and 
passes  out.  Conversation  with  Fenton  without 
is  heard.  Mrs.  Abbey  comes  back.) 

MRS.  ABBEY 

A  young  man  wants  to  see  you,  ma'am. 

MARGARET 

That's  the  new  model.  I'll  get  my  working 
apron. 

(Margaret  goes  out,  door,  right.  Mrs.  Abbey  calls 
through  door,  center.) 

MRS.  ABBEY 

You  c'n  come  in. 

(Enter  door,  center,  Charles  P.  K.  fienton,  dic 
tionary  salesman.  He  is  a  strikingly  handsome 
young  man,  offensively  smartly  dressed  in  a 
black-and-white  check  suit,  gaudy  tie,  and  white 
socks.  His  hair  is  brushed  back  from  his  fore 
head  like  a  glossy  sheath.  He  carries  a  small 
black  bag.  His  manner  is  distinctly  "male") 

MRS.  ABBEY  (points  to  the  screen) 

You  can  undress  behind  there. 
FENTON 

Undress?    Say,  what's  this?    A  Turkish  bath? 

MRS.  ABBEY 

Did  you  expect  to  have  a  private  room  all  to 
yourself? 

FENTON  (looking  around) 
What  am  I  to  undress  for? 

MRS.  ABBEY 

The  missus  will  be  here  in  a  minute. 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

FENTON 

Good-night!  I'mgoin'!   (He  makes  for the  door •.) 

MRS.  ABBEY 

What's  the  matter?  Ain't  you  the  missus'  new 
model  ? 

FENTON 

A  model!  Ha,  ha!  You've  sure  got  the  wrong 
number  this  time.  I'm  in  the  dictionary  line, 
ma'am. 

MRS.  ABBEY 

Well,  of  all  the  impudence!  You  a  book  agent, 
and  a-walkin'  in  here. 

FENTON 

Well,  you  asked  me  in,  didn't  you?  Can't  I 
see  the  missus,  just  for  a  minute? 

MRS.  ABBEY  (good-naturedly) 

Very  well.  (Confidentially)  I  advise  you  to  re 
move  that  Spearmint  from  your  mouth,  if  you 
want  to  sell  any  dictionaries  in  this  house. 

FENTON  (placing  his  hand  to  his  mouth) 
Where  shall  I  put  it? 

MRS.  ABBEY 

You'd  better  swallow  it! 

(Fenton  tries  to  do  so,  chokes,  turns  red,  and 
places  his  hand  to  his  mouth.  Margaret  enters 
doory  right.) 

MARGARET  (to  Fenton) 
I'm  so  glad  to  see  you. 

(Fenton  is  most  embarrassed.  Mrs.  Abbey  >  in 
surprise,  attempts  to  explain  the  situation?) 

MRS.  ABBEY 

But,  ma'am — 

66 


ANOTHER    WAY   OUT 


MARGARET 

You  may  go,  Mrs.  Abbey. 

MRS.  ABBEY 

But,  but,  ma'am — 
MARGARET  (severely) 

You  may  go,  Mrs.  Abbey.  (Mrs.  Abbey  leaves 
in  a  hujf.)  I'm  so  glad  they  sent  you  up  to  see 
me.  Won't  you  sit  down? 

(Fenton  finds  it  a  difficult  matter  to  handle  the 
situation.  He  adopts  his  usual  formula  for  an 
"opening"  but  his  speech  is  mechanical  and 
without  conviction.  Margaret  adds  to  his  em 
barrassment  by  stepping  around  him  and  ex 
amining  him  with  professional  interest^) 

FENTON 

Madam,  I  represent  the  Globe  Advertising 
Publishing  Sales  Company,  the  largest  pub 
lishers  of  dictionaries  in  the  world. 

MARGARET  (continuing  to  appraise  him) 
Then  you're  not  the  new  model? 

FENTON 
No,  ma'am. 

MARGARET 

What  a  pity !    Never  mind,  go  on. 
FENTON 

As  I  was  saying,  ma'am,  I  represent  the  Ad 
vertising  Globe  Publishing — I  mean  the  Globe 
Advertising  Publishing  Sales  Company,  the 
largest  publishers  of  dictionaries  in  the  world. 
For  some  time  past  we  have  felt  that  there  was 
a  demand  for  a  new  Encyclopaedic  Dictionary, 
madam,  one  that  would  not  only  fill  up  a  good 
deal  of  space  on  the  bookshelf,  making  an  at- 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

tractive  addition  to  the  home,  but  also  con 
taining  the  most  complete  collection  of  words 
in  the  English  language. 

(Margaret  has  taken  a  pencil  and  is  measuring 
Fenton  while  he  speaks.  Fenton's  discomfort  is 
obvious.  He  attempts  to  rearrange  his  tie  and 
coat,  thinking  she  is  examining  them.) 

MARGARET 

Please  go  on  talking,  it's  so  interesting. 

FENTON 

Statistics  show  that  the  woman  of  average  edu 
cation  in  America,  madam,  has  command  of 
but  fifteen  hundred  words.  This  new  diction 
ary,  madam  (producing  a  book  from  his  bag),  will 
give  you  command  of  over  eight  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand. 

MARGARET  (archly) 

So  you  are  a  dealer  in  words — how  perfectly 
romantic. 

FENTON  (warming) 

Most  of  these  Wiords,  madam,  are  not  used  more 
than  a  dozen  times  a  year.  They  are  our 
Heritage  from  the  Past,  ma'am,  just  as  our 
flag  is  our  heritage.  And  all  these  words,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  the  dictionary  fills 
five  inches  on  a  bookshelf,  making  an  attrac 
tive  addition  to  your  library,  being  handsomely 
bound  in  half-cloth,  all  these  are  yours,  ma'am, 
for  the  price  of  one  dollar. 

(He  places  a  dictionary  in  her  hand.  She  ex 
amines  it.) 

68 


ANOTHER    WAY    OUT 


FENTON 

If  you  have  a  son,  madam,  the  possession  of  this 
dictionary  will  give  him  an  opportunity  of 
acquiring  that  knowledge  of  our  language 
which  made  Abraham  Lincoln  the  Father  of 
Our  Country.  Madam,  opportunity  knocks 
at  the  door  only  once,  and  this  is  your  oppor 
tunity,  at  one  dollar. 

MARGARET  (meaningly) 

Yes,  this  is  my  opportunity!  I'll  buy  the  dic 
tionary,  and  now  (sweetly)  won't  you  tell  me 
your  name? 

FENTON  (pocketing  the  dollar) 

My  name  is  Charles  P.  K.  Fenton. 

MARGARET 

Mr.  Fenton,  would  you  mind  doing  me  a  favor? 
FENTON  (looking  dubiously  toward  the  screen) 
Why,  I  guess  not,  madam. 

MARGARET 

I  want  you  to  take  off  your  coat. 

FENTON  (pUZZled) 

You're  not  trying  to  kid  me,  ma'am? 

MARGARET 

I  just  want  to  see  your  development.  Do  you 
mind  ? 

FENTON  (removes  his  coat) 
Why,  no,  ma'am,  if  that's  all  you  want. 

MARGARET 

Now,  bring  your  arm  up,  tighten  the  muscles. 
(Fenton  does  as  she  bids;  Margaret  thumps  his 
arm  approvingly^)  Splendid!  You  must  take 
lots  of  exercise,  Mr.  Fenton. 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

FENTON 

Not  me,  ma'am.  I  never  had  no  time  for  ex 
ercise.  I  got  that  workin'  in  a  freight  yard. 

MARGARET 

I  suppose  you  think  me  rather  peculiar,  Mr. 
Fen  ton. 

FENTON 

You've  said  it,  ma'am. 

MARGARET 

You  see,  I'm  a  sculptress.  (She  points  to  the 
statuette.)  This  is  my  work. 

FENTON 

You  made  that?  Gee!  That's  great.  (He  ex 
amines  the  statuette.)  Just  like  them  statues  at 
the  Metropolitan. 

MARGARET 

That  center  figure  is  Apollo,  Mr.  Fenton. 
FENTON  (vaguely) 
Oh— Apollo! 

MARGARET 

I  was  to  engage  a  professional  model  for  it, 
but  I  could  never  hope  to  get  a  professional 
as  fine  a  type  as  you.    Will  you  pose  for  it? 
FENTON  (aghast) 

Me?  That  feller  there  without  any  clothes? 
(Dubiously)  Well,  I  don't  know.  It's  kind 
of  chilly  here. 

MARGARET 

If  I  draped  you,  it  would  spoil  some  of  your 
lines.  (Seeing  his  hesitation.)  But  I  will  if 
you  like. 

FENTON  (relieved") 
Ah,  now  you're  talking. 
70 


ANOTHER    WAY    OUT 


MARGARET 

So  you'll  really  come? 

FENTON 

How  about  this  evening? 

MARGARET 

Splendid!  Sit  down.  (Fenton  does  so.)  Mr. 
Fenton,  you've  quite  aroused  my  curiosity.  I 
know  so  few  business  men.  Is  your  work  in 
teresting? 

FENTON 

Well,  I  can't  say  it  was,  until  I  started  selling 
around  this  neighborhood. 

MARGARET 

Is  it  difficult? 

FENTON 

Not  if  you've  got  personality,  ma'am.  That's 
the  thing,  personality.  If  a  feller  hasn't  got 
personality,  he  can't  sell  goods,  that's  sure. 

MARGARET 

What  do  you  mean  by  personality,  Mr.  Fenton? 

FENTON 

Well,  it's  what  sells  the  goods.  I  don't  know 
how  else  to  explain  it,  exactly.  I'll  look  it  up 
in  the  dictionary.  (He  takes  a  dictionary  and 
turns  the  pages.)  Here  it  is,  ma'am.  Per — 
per — why,  it  isn't  in  here.  I  guess  they  don't 
put  in  words  that  everybody  knows.  We  all 
know  what  personality  means.  It's  what  sells 
the  goods. 

MARGARET 

I  adore  a  strong,  virile,  masculine  personality. 

FENTON 

I  don't  quite  get  you,  madam. 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

MARGARET 

The  men  I  know  have  so  much  of  the  feminine 
in  them. 
FENTON 
Oh,— "sissies"! 

MARGARET     (flirt'lYlgly) 

They  lack  the  magnetic  forcefulness  which  I 
like  so  much  in  you. 

FENTON 

I  believe  you  are  kidding  me.    Does  that  mean 
you  like  me? 

MARGARET 

That's  rather  an  embarrassing  question. 

FENTON 

You  must  or  you  wouldn't  let  me  speak  to  you 
in  this  way. 

MARGARET    (archly) 

Never  mind  whether  I  like  you.  Tell  me  whether 
you  like  me. 

FENTON  (feeling  more  at  home) 
Gee!    I  didn't  get  on  to  you  at  first.    Sure  I  like 
you. 

MARGARET 

Then^  we're  going  to  be  good  friends. 

FENTON 

You  just  bet  we  are.     Say,  got  a  date  for  to 
morrow  evening? 

MARGARET 

No. 

FENTON 

How  about  the  movies?    There's  a  fine  feature 
film  at  the  Strand.    Theda  Bara  in  "The  Lone 
some  Vampire,"  five  reels.     They  say  it's  got 
"Gloria's  Romance"  beat  a  mile. 
72 


ANOTHER    WAY   OUT 


MARGARET 

I  don't  know  that  I'd  care  to  go  there. 

FENTON 

How  about  a  run  down  to  Coney? 
MARGARET  (ecstatically) 

Coney!    I've  always  wanted  to  do  wild  pagan 
things! 

FENTON 

Say,  you'll  tell  me  your  name,  won't  you? 

MARGARET 

Margaret  Marshall. 
FENTON 
Do  you  mind  if  I  call  you  Margie? 

MARGARET 

If  you  do,  I  must  call  you — 

FENTON 

Charley.     Gee,   I   like   the  name  of  Margie. 
Some  class  to  that ! 

MARGARET 

I'm  glad  you  like  it. 
FENTON  (moving  closer) 
And  some  class  to  you! 

MARGARET    (coyly) 

So  you  really  like  me? 

FENTON 

You  bet.    Say,  before  I  go,  you've  got  to  give 
me  a  kiss,  Margie. 

MARGARET 

Well,  I  don't  know.    Aren't  you  rather  "rush 
ing"  me? 
FENTON 

Say,  you  are  a  kidder.     (He  draws  her  up  from 
her  chair,  and  kisses  her  warmly  on  the  lips.) 
73 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

MARGARET  (ecstatically) 

You  have  the  true  Greek  spirit!     (They  kiss 

again.)     If  only  Pommy  would  kiss  me  that 

way! 
FENTON 

Pommy?    Who's  Pommy? 

MARGARET 

Pommy  is  the  man  I  live  with. 

FENTON 

Your  husband? 

MARGARET 

No,  we  just  live  together.     You  see,  we  don't 
believe  in  marriage. 
FENTON  (pushing  her  away  in  horror) 

I  thought  there  was  something  queer  about  all 
this.    Does  he  live  here? 

MARGARET 

Yes.     (Points  to  door,  right.}     He's   in   there 

now. 
FENTON   (excitedly) 

Good-night!    I'm  goin'.     (He  looks  for  his  hat '.) 
MARGARET   (speaking  with  real  anguish) 

You're  surely  not  going  just  on  that  account. 
FENTON  (taking  hat  and  bag) 

Isn't  that  enough? 
MARGARET  (emotionally) 

Please   don't    go.      Listen.      I    can't    suppress 

my  feeling  for  you.    I  never  do  with  anybody. 

I  liked  you  the  moment  I  saw  you.    I  want  you 

as  a  friend,  a  good  friend.    You  can't  go  now, 

just  when  every  thing's,  about  to  begin. 
FENTON   (severely) 

Fair's  fair,  Miss.    If  he's  keeping  you,  you  can't 
74 


ANOTHER    WAY    OUT 


be  taking  up  with  me  at  the  same  time.  That 
puts  the  finish  on  it. 

MARGARET 

But  he  doesn't  keep  me.    I  keep  myself. 

FENTON 

Wait  a  minute.  You  support  yourself  and  live 
with  him  of  your  own  free  will!  Then  youVe 
got  no  excuse  for  being  immoral.  'Tisn't  like 
you  had  to  make  your  living  at  it.  (At  the  door.) 
Goodbye.  . 

MARGARET 

But  I  can  explain  everything. 

FENTON 

It's  no  use.  Miss.  Even  though  I  am  a  sales 
man,  I've  got  a  sense  of  honor.  I  sized  you  up 
as  a  married  woman  when  I  came  in  just  now, 
or  I  never  would  have  made  love  to  you  at 
all. 

MARGARET 

Oh,  wait!  Supposing  I  should  want  to  buy  some 
more  dictionaries? 

FENTON  (returning) 

You've  got  my  card,  Miss.  The  phone  number 
is  on  it.  Bryant  4253.  (Sees  Margaret  hang 
her  head.)  Don't  feel  hurt,  Miss.  You'll  get 
over  these  queer  ideas  some  day,  and  when  you 
do,  well,  you've  got  my  nu/nber.  So  long,  Kid. 
(Fenton  goes  out,  door,  center.) 

MARGARET  (taking  his  card  from  the  table  and  plac 
ing  it  to  her  lips  sou/fully) 
My  Apollo — Bryant  4253 ! 

(Enter  Pendleton,  door,  right.) 
75 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

PENDLETON 

Did  you  get  a  good  start  with  your  scandal? 
(Margaret  hangs  her  head.)  It's  no  use.  I'm 
convinced  we're  in  a  hopeless  muddle. 

MARGARET 

I  heartily  agree  with  you. 

PENDLETON 

You've  changed  your  mind  very  suddenly. 

MARGARET 

I  have  my  reasons. 

PENDLETON 

The  fact  is,  Margaret,  that  so  long  as  we  live 
together  we're  public  figures,  with  everybody 
else  as  our  jury. 

MARGARET 

But  lots  of  people  read  your  books  and  respect 
us. 

PENDLETON 

The  people  that  respect  us  are  worse  than  the 
people  that  don't. 

MARGARET 

If  they  wouldn't  always  be  bothering  about  our 
morals ! 

PENDLETON 

If  we  continue  to  live  together,  we  shall  simply 
be  giving  up  our  freedom  to  prove  we  are  free. 
MARGARET  (faltering) 

I  suppose  we  ought  to  separate. 

PENDLETON 

I  believe  we  should. 

MARGARET 

We'll  have  to  give  up  the  studio. 
PENDLETON  (regretfully) 
Yes. 

76 


ANOTHER    WAY    OUT 


MARGARET 

It's  taken  a  long  time  to  make  the  place  home 
like. 

PENDLETON 

We've  been  very  comfortable  here. 

MARGARET 

I  shall  miss  you  at  meals. 

PENDLETON 

I  shall  have  to  start  eating  at  clubs  and  res 
taurants  again.  No  more  good  home  cook 
ing. 

MARGARET 

We're  kind  of  used  to  one  another,  aren't  we? 

PENDLETON 

It  isn't  an  easy  matter  to  break,  after  five  years. 

MARGARET 

And  there  are  mighty  few  studios  with  as  good 
a  light  as  this.  I  don't  want  to  separate,  if 
you  don't. 

PENDLETON 

But,  Margaret —   (Piano  starts  playing  the  Wed 
ding  March.)     There,  that  confounded  piano 
again.    (Seized  with  an  idea.)    Margaret,  there's 
another  way  out! 
MARGARET  (with  the  same  idea) 
You  mean,  we  ought  to  marry! 

PENDLETON 

Yes,  marry,  and  do  it  at  once.  That'll  end 
everything. 

MARGARET 

Let's  do  it  right  away  and  get  it  over  with. 
I  simply  must  finish  my  Apollo. 

PENDLETON 

I'm  going  to  buy  you  a  new  gown  to  get  married 
77 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

in,  a  wedding  present,  from  Baroness  de  Meau- 
ville's. 

MARGARET 

I  don't  know  that  I  want  a  de  Meauville  gown. 

PENDLETON 

Please  let  me.  I  want  to  give  you  something 
to  symbolize  our  new  life  together. 

MARGARET 

Very  well.  And  in  return,  I'll  buy  you  a  dic 
tionary,  so  that  I  won't  have  to  keep  on  cor 
recting  your  spelling. 

(Pendleton  goes  out,  door,  right.  Margaret  goes 
to  the  phone  >  and  consults  Fenton's  card.) 

MARGARET 

Bryant  4253?  Can  I  speak  to  Mr.  Fen  ton? 
(Enter  Mrs.  Abbey.)  Mrs.  Abbey,  what  do 
you  think?  We're  going  to  get  married! 

MRS.  ABBEY 

Well,  bless  my  soul!    That's  right.     You  can 
take  it  from  me,  ma'am,  you'll  find  that  re 
spectability  pays. 
MARGARET  (at  phone) 

Bryant  4253?  (Sweetfo.)  Is  that  Mr.  Fen  ton? 
(Pause.)  Hello,  Charley! 

CURTAIN 


THE   FAMILY   EXIT 

A    COMEDY   IN    ONE   ACT 


THE  FAMILY  EXIT  was  first  produced  in  September,  1917, 
at  the  Comedy  Theatre,  New  York,  with  the  following  cast: 


PETER  RUTHERFORD-VANDUSEN 

RUTHERFORD  RUTHERFORD-VANDUSEN 

MARTHA  RUTHERFORD-VANDUSEN 

CORNELIUS 

EUGENIA 

MIKE  O'ROURKE 

ELISE 


DAVID  HIGGINS 

EDWIN  FORSBERG 

ALBERTA  GALLATIN 

JAMES  DYRENFORTH 

FRANCES  Ross 

FRANK  E.  JAMISON 

ALETHEA  LUCE 


Produced  under  the  direction  of  MR.  PHILIP  MOELLER 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 

BY  LAWRENCE  LANGNER 

All  Rights  Reserved 


THE  FAMILY  EXIT 

SCENE 

A  room  in  the  Immigration  Office  at  Ellis  Island. 
A  bare,  official-looking  room,  with  doors  right 
and  left.  The  furnishings  consist  of  a  long  table, 
a  desk,  and  some  chairs.  On  the  table  is  a  tele 
phone^  and  on  the  desk,  a  large,  ledger-like  book. 

Mike  O'Rourke  is  a  middle-aged  Irish- American. 
He  wears  the  uniform  of  an  immigration  officer. 

Rutherford  Rutherford-Vandusen  is  a  pompous 
elderly  gentleman,  exceedingly  well-dressed,  and 
carrying  himself  always  with  the  air  of  the  Ameri 
can  aristocrat.  He  is  regarded  as  the  head  of  the 
well-known  Rutherford-Vandusen  family,  and 
never  forgets  this  fact  for  a  minute. 

Martha,  his  wife,  is  of  equal  importance.  She 
has  reached  a  ripe  middle  age.  She  carries  a 
lorgnette  which  she  uses  to  advantage  for  the  pur 
pose  of  discomforting  her  social  inferiors. 

Cornelius  is  the  product  of  three  universities, 
from  each  of  which  he  has  been  expelled  in  turn. 
As  a  result,  he  has  been  able  to  acquire  the  vices 
of  all  three.  He  has  a  winning,  boyish  manner, 
which  makes  him  instantly  popular.  He  is  about 
twenty-five  years  old. 

Eugenia  is  a  young  debutante,  pretty  but  un 
developed. 

81 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

Martha,  Eugenia,  Cornelius,  and  Rutherford 
are  seated  at  the  table.  O'Rourke  is  sitting  on  a 
high  stool  at  the  desk. 

RUTHERFORD  (to  0' Rourke) 

Is  this  the  best  room  you  have? 

O'ROURKE 

Sure,  sir.  It's  the  best  on  Ellis  Island!  We 
call  it  the  drawing-room,  sir. 

MARTHA  (sliding  her  finger  over  the  top  of  the  table, 
and  examining  the  result  through  her  lorgnette) 
This  place  hasn't  been  dusted  for  months. 

O'ROURKE 

It's  them  aliens,  ma'am.  You  can't  do  nothin' 
wid  aliens.  Put  a  bunch  of  them  in  a  clean 
room  like  this,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  you  will 
find  it  so  full  of  dust,  you'd  think  it  never 
was  cleaned  in  years. 

CORNELIUS 
That's  queer.     Where  do  they  get  the  dust? 

O'ROURKE 

Like  as  not  they  bring  it  over  wid  them,  sir. 

RUTHERFORD 

The  conditions  I  find  here  are  absolutely  de 
plorable.  I  shall  write  a  letter  to  the  New  York 
Times  on  the  subject  immediately  on  returning 
home. 

CORNELIUS 

Say,  Dad,  we  didn't  come  to  this  hole  to  make 
a  sanitary  investigation,  did  we? 

O'ROURKE  (going  to  the  desk) 

I'll  see  if  I  can  find  the  alien  you're  lookin'  for. 

82 


THE    FAMILY    EXIT 


RUTHERFORD  (indignantly) 

Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you  again  that  the 
gentleman  I  wish  to  see  is  not  an  alien.  He  is 
my  brother! 

O'ROURKE 

I  beg  pardon,  sir.  I  know  just  how  you  feel, 
My  own  brother,  Patrick,  was  an  alien  once  upon 
a  time  himself,  and  what  an  alien !  One  of  the 
worst  that  ever  came  on  the  Island!  Why,  sir, 
he  hadn't  set  foot  on  American  soil  more  than 
half  an  hour  before  he  started  a  fight  and  nearly 
killed  a  couple  of  Dagoes! 

CORNELIUS  (much  interested) 
He  must  have  been  a  corker! 

RUTHERFORD 

I  should  hardly  think  a  man  of  that  type  would 
make  a  very  desirable  citizen. 
O'ROURKE  (to  Rutherford) 

Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,  that's  where  you're 
wrong.  After  he'd  finished  with  the  Wops,  he 
yells,  "Me  for  the  land  of  liberty,"  and  wid 
that  he  whales  into  a  couple  of  Greasers,  an'  two 
or  three  Pollacks,  till  they  called  out  the  Fire 
Department,  an'  him  cursin'  and  swearin'  so 
blasphemous  (beggin'  your  pardon,  ma'am) 
that  the  Holy  Father  himself,  who  lives  here 
on  the  Island,  began  yellin'  paternosters  to  beat 
thedivil! 

RUTHERFORD 

But— 

O'ROURKE 

Ah,  Pat  was  a  great  one,  sir.  (Deploringly .) 
Aliens  ain't  like  that  nowadays.  Them  low 
Hungarians  an'  Greeks  an'  whatnot,  ain't  got 

83 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

no  Irish  spirit  in  'em.  Not  one  good  fight  have 
we  had  on  this  Island  for  months. 

MARTHA 

I    suppose    your    brother    was    deported    im 
mediately.1 
O'ROURKE  (astonished) 

Deported,  ma'am.  I  should  say  not.  Michael 
O'Callahan,  the  Commissioner  of  Immigration, 
comes  up  to  my  brother,  an'  "Patrick 
O'Rourke,"  says  he,  "wid  your  vicious  fighting 
abilities,  we'll  make  a  first-rate  New  York 
pleeceman  of  you — but  you've  got  to  quit  your 
cursin'  and  swearin'."  "Bedad,"  says  Pat,  "it's 
the  pleeceman  I'll  be,  but"  (beggin'  yer  pardon, 
ma'am) — says  he  to  O'Callahan,  "I'll  be  damned 
if  I  quit  me  cursin'  and  swearin'." 

MARTHA 

What  a  dreadful  person ! 
O'ROURKE  (explanatory) 

O'Callahan  seen  his  heart  was  in  the  right  place, 
ma'am.  Says  he  to  me  brother,  "Then  if  you 
won't  quit  cursin'  and  swearin',  O'Rourke,"  says 
he,  "will  you  promise  you'll  act  like  a  gentle 
man,  an'  only  curse  an'  swear  when  you're 
at  home?"  "Sure,"  says  Pat,  an'  wid  that  they 
let  him  in. 

RUTHERFORD 

Indeed! 
O'ROURKE 

An'  today,  sir,  my  brother  owns  three  clubs 
on  the  East  Side,  an*  is  runnin'  for  Alderman 
next  election.  Maybe  you've  heard  of  him  sir? 
Patrick  O'Rourke's  his  name. 


THE    FAMILY    EXIT 


RUTHERFORD 

I  can't  say  I  have,  Mr.  O'Rourke.  I  am  not 
well  acquainted  in  East  Side  club  circles.  (He 
looks  at  his  watch.)  I'd  be  infinitely  obliged  if 
you  could  arrange  for  me  to  see  my  brother  as 
soon  as  possible. 
O'ROURKE 

Sure,  sir,  I  didn't  know  you  was  in  a  hurry.  As 
a  general  rule,  most  people  that  comes  here  to 
meet  their  relatives  is  in  no  hurry  at  all ! 

CORNELIUS 

My  uncle's  been  away  for  twenty  years.  I've 
never  seen  him. 

O'ROURKE 

Sure,  that  accounts  for  it,  sir.  I  know  some- 
thin'  about  family  life  myself.  I've  had  troubles 
of  my  own!  (Going  to  the  desk.)  What  did  you 
say  his  name  was? 

RUTHERFORD  (impatient) 
Peter  Vandusen. 

O'ROURKE 

Vandusen.  There  you  are,  sir.  Peter  Vandusen, 
Case  No.  374.  (Looking  up.)  I'm  not  sure  you 
can  see  him,  sir.  When  they've  got  a  number 
like  this  here,  it  means  they've  got  somethin' 
agin'  him. 

RUTHERFORD 

Something  against  him!  Whatever  do  you 
mean  ? 

(Martha  and  Eugenia  rise.) 

O'ROURKE 

How  did  you   know  your  brother  was  here? 

85 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

RUTHERFORD 

Mr.  Tillotson,  our  lawyer,  told  us  so  this  morn 
ing,  and  we  came  here  immediately  to  arrange 
matters  with  the  authorities. 
O'ROURKE 

Did  yer  lawyer  tell  you  why  your  brother  was 
detained  here? 

RUTHERFORD 

Not  a  word. 

(O'Rourke  takes  a  paper  from  the  desk,  and 
Rutherford  crosses  to  him.) 

O'ROURKE 

Well,  it  can  only  be  for  one  of  a  few  things  that 
the  United  States  Government  is  detainin'  him. 
(He  consults  the  lists.)  There's  our  regulations. 
Did  you  know  whether  yer  brother  has  small 
pox  or  trachoma,  for  instance? 

EUGENIA 

Uncle  can't  have  anything  like  that  the  matter 

with  him,  can  he,  Mother? 
CORNELIUS  (facetiously) 

I   should  expect  Uncle   Peter   to   have   better 

taste  than  to  bring  anything  like  that  into  the 

country! 
O'ROURKE 

How  about  the  bubonic  plague,  or  cholera,  or 

the  like  obnoxious  diseases  ? 
RUTHERFORD  (nettled) 

My   brother,   sir,   comes   of  a   thoroughly  re 
spectable  old  American  family! 
O'ROURKE 

Ah!     Then  maybe  they  won't  let  him  in  for 

moral  reasons. 

86 


THE    FAMILY    EXIT 


MARTHA 

What! 

RUTHERFORD 

So  far  as  we  know,  my  brother  is  a  confirmed 
bachelor. 
O'ROURKE 

He  may  be  a  bachelor,  sir,  but  is  he  a  polyga 
mist? 

RUTHERFORD 

A  polygamist?    What  do  you  want  to  know  that 
for? 
O'ROURKE  (points  to  the  paper) 

It's  one  of  the  questions  we  ask.  If  he's  a 
polygamist,  the  United  States  won't  let  him 
land.  We've  enough  of  that  sort  here  al 
ready  ! 

RUTHERFORD 

These  questions  are  absolutely  absurd! 

O'ROURKE  (consulting  the  paper) 
Is  yer  brother  an  anarchist,  sir? 

EUGENIA  (enthusiastically) 

Wouldn't  that  be  exciting!  Fancy  Uncle  being 
an  anarchist — and  throwing  bombs  and  things! 
I  do  hope  he's  an  anarchist! 

MARTHA  (severely) 

Nonsense!  Your  uncle  is  too  rich  to  be  an  an 
archist! 

O'ROURKE  (crosses  to  the  telephone  at  the  table,  left) 
Just  a  minute!  I'll  call  the  superintendent. 
(Takes  the  phone.)  Official  3.  Is  that  you, 
Sullivan?  There's  a  party  here  to  see  a  Mr. 
Peter  Vandusen,  No.  374.  One  of  the  gintle- 
men's  his  brother.  (Appraises  Rutherford.) 
Yes,  he's  quite  the  gintleman — all  dolled  up 

8? 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

fine.  What  is  374  being  held  for?  The  divil 
you  say!  Are  you  sure?  All  right.  (He  drops 
the  receiver.) 

RUTHERFORD 

What  is  it? 
O'ROURKE 

It's  morals,  sir! 

MARTHA 

Morals  ?     (She  rises.) 

RUTHERFORD 

Morals?     What  do  you  mean? 
O'ROURKE 

Case  No.  374  arrived  wid  Case  No.  375. 

MARTHA 

What  on  earth  is  that? 
O'ROURKE 

375  is  a  woman! 

RUTHERFORD 

A  woman! 
MARTHA  (shocked) 

Do  you  mean  he  came  here  from  Paris  with  a 

lady? 
O'ROURKE 

No,  ma'am,  a  woman! 
MARTHA  (to  Rutherford) 

Rutherford,  my  dear,  do  you  think  it  right  for 

Eugenia  to  remain  here  while  we  uncover  the 

details  of  this  disgusting  affair? 

RUTHERFORD 

Certainly  not,  Martha.    Eugenia,  wait  outside! 

EUGENIA 

Dad,  please  let  me  stay.  I  heard  all  about  when 
Aunt  Vera  spent  the  week-end  with  the  chauf- 


THE    FAMILY    EXIT 


feur,  and  if  I  was  old  enough  to  hear  about  that, 
I'm  old  enough  to  hear  about  this,  too. 

MARTHA 

This  is  quite  a  different  matter.  It  isn't  at  all 
likely  that  my  sister  Vera  would  stoop  to  the 
depravities  of  which  your  father's  brother  is 
capable. 

RUTHERFORD  (hotly) 

Until  this  day  there  has  never  been  a  breath  of 
scandal  linked  with  the  name  of  Vandusen, 
but  I  well  remember  the  weeks  we  spent  worry 
ing  over  the  possibility  of  your  sister's  dis 
graceful  escapade  becoming  public. 

MARTHA 

At  any  rate,  even  if  my  sister  was  guilty  of  im 
proper  behavior,  she  had  the  decency  to  be  im 
proper  in  private,  as  a  well-bred  person  should, 
instead  of  flaunting  the  scandal  in  the  face  of 
the  entire  United  States,  as  your  brother  seems 
to  be  doing! 

RUTHERFORD 

Eugenia,  on  second  thought,  you  may  stay.    I'm 
sure    there   must    be    some    misunderstanding. 
No   Rutherford-Vandusen   could  ever  sink  so 
low  as  to  be  capable  of  anything  in  the  nature 
of  your  Aunt  Vera's  escapade. 
CORNELIUS 
How  about  me,  Dad? 

MARTHA 

Don't  be  impertinent,  Cornelius. 
RUTHERFORD  (to  0' Rourke) 

Can  we  see  my  brother? 
O'ROURKE 

Sure,  sir.  The  United  States  don't  object  to  you 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

seem'  him.  It's  a  pity  he  didn't  let  you  know, 
sir,  so's  you  could  have  tipped  him  off  to  come 
on  one  boat — and  the  female  alien  on  the  next. 
That's  the  regular  way  to  do  it,  sir,  with  every 
thing  moral  and  aboveboard. 

CORNELIUS 

That's  a  cinch  of  a  way  to  be  moral ! 

O'ROURKE 

Sure,  sir.  It's  easy  enough  to  be  moral !  Comply 
wid  the  law  of  the  United  States,  that's  what 
we  say.  When  a  man  knows  that  so  long  as  he 
behaves  decent  when  he  comes  into  this  coun 
try,  he  can  stay  here  and  be  as  indecent  as  he 
pleases,  it's  a  poor  sort  of  morality,  says  we, 
for  him  not  to  come  here  on  one  ship  an'  her 
on  another,  an'  comply  wid  the  laws  of  the 
United  States! 

CORNELIUS 

Say,  what'll  happen  if  374  sticks  to  375  ? 

O'ROURKE 

They'll  both  be  sent  back  to  Paris,  sir,  and 
that's  the  right  place  for  them  as  has  no  self- 
control.  Would  you  like  to  see  the  female  alien 
along  wid  your  brother,  sir? 

MARTHA 

The  female  alien?    Certainly  not. 
CORNELIUS 

Mother!    Be  a  sport!    Let's  look  her  over. 

MARTHA 

Do  you  want  your  mother  and  your  sister  to 
meet  such  a  woman? 

EUGENIA 

I'd  love  to  meet  a  really  fallen  woman,  Mother. 
Besides,  she's  almost  related  to  us,  isn't  she? 
90 


THE    FAMILY    EXIT 


MARTHA 

Eugenia,  you're  getting  all  kinds  of  wrong  ideas 
in  your  head.  I'm  determined  you  shall  not 
stay  here. 

EUGENIA 

Where  shall  I  go? 
MARTHA  (points  to  the  door,  /eft,  marked  "Private") 

May  she  wait  in  there? 
O'ROURKE 

Sure,   if  she   wants    to,   ma'am — but   I    don't 

advise  it. 

MARTHA 

Why  not? 
O'ROURKE 

That's  where  we  keep  the  white  slaves,  ma'am. 

MARTHA 

White  slaves! 
O'ROURKE 

Don't  be  scared,  ma'am.    They're  just  as  scared 

of  you  as  you  are  of  them. 
MARTHA  (hysterically) 

I  wish  we  hadn't  come.     This  place  is  full  of 

dreadful  people! 
O'ROURKE 

This  room  what  you're  in  now,  ma'am,  was 

once  the  typhoid  ward. 

(They  all  rise.) 

RUTHERFORD 

The  typhoid  ward! 
(Cornelius  crosses  to  Eugenia.) 

O'ROURKE 

Yes,  sir,  and  I've  heard  tell  that  they  stacked 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

the  corpses  one  on  top  of  another,  during  one 
of  them  epidemics,  that  high!  (Pantomimes 
height  to  shoulders.) 

MARTHA 

I  feel  quite  faint,  Rutherford. 
O'ROURKE  (laughs) 

Sure,  it's  all  right  now,  ma'am.  The  old  typhoid 
ward  was  burnt  down  years  ago.  I'll  go  an* 
bring  yer  brother,  sir.  (He  goes  out,  right.) 

MARTHA 

What  a  horrible  creature! 
RUTHERFORD  (sits  at  the  table,  left) 
What  do  you  expect  from  a  government  official 
nowadays?     Cornelius,  this  is  what  we  get  for 
electing  a  Democratic  Administration. 

MARTHA 

I'm  afraid  to  touch  anything.  I  shan't  be  able 
to  go  near  the  children  for  a  month.  (She  fans 
the  air.)  I  can  almost  feel  disease  in  the  air! 

RUTHERFORD 

Don't  fuss,  Martha. 

MARTHA 

I'm  not  fussing,  Rutherford.  You  annoy  me  so 
sometimes,  I  could  almost  scream. 

RUTHERFORD 

Scream,  if  you  want  to. 

EUGENIA 

Father!    You  know  how  nervous  Mother  is! 

MARTHA 

What  does  your  father  care  about  my  nerves? 
His  good-for-nothing  brother  spends  twenty 
years  in  Europe, — refuses  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  his  family  all  that  time,  and  arrives 
here  like  a  convict;  and  then  nothing  suits 
92 


THE    FAMILY    EXIT 


your  father  but  that  he  must  endanger  our  lives 
by  bringing  us  to  this  disease-ridden  place  to 
meet  him. 

RUTHERFORD 

Did  I  bring  you  here?    Was  it  my  idea? 

MARTHA 

Do  you  think  I  would  have  suggested  coming 
here  if  you  had  told  me  the  kind  of  place  this 
was? 

RUTHERFORD 

How  should  I  have  known  ? 

MARTHA 

If  you  didn't  waste  all  your  time  playing  golf 
and  sitting  around  at  the  club,  you'd  have  made 
it  your  business  to  know,  before  bringing  us 
here. 

RUTHERFORD 

Didn't  you  pester  me  to  come? 

MARTHA 

I? 
RUTHERFORD 

Didn't  you  say  that  so  long  as  Peter  was  so 
wealthy  and  had  no  heir,  it  was  my  duty  to 
see  we  should  all  welcome  him? 

MARTHA 

And  what  if  I  did  ?  The  children  have  nothing— 
absolutely  nothing — thanks  to  your  gullibility! 

EUGENIA 

Oh,  Mother,  do  stop! 

MARTHA 

I  shall  not  stop.  Your  father  had  just  as  much 
money  as  your  Uncle  Peter  in  the  beginning— 
and  would  have  had  to  this  day — if  he  hadn't 
speculated  with  it — and  with  my  money  into 
93 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

the  bargain.  I  suppose  we  can  thank  our  lucky 
stars  there  was  some  he  couldn't  touch,  or  we'd 
be  beggars  today.  As  it  is,  we  have  to  pinch 
and  scrape  to  get  along  on  our  niggardly  thirty 
thousand  a  year! 

RUTHERFORD 

Are  you  never  going  to  stop  talking  about  that 
money? 

MARTHA 

Rutherford,  so  long  as  there  is  a  breath  left 
in  my  body,  I  shall  say  again  what  I  have  said 
before — you   had   no   business   to   speculate   if 
you  weren't  sure  of  not  losing  the  money! 
CORNELIUS 

I  wish  you  two  wouldn't  bother  about  what 
we're  going  to  inherit.  We're  not  worrying 
about  it. 

EUGENIA 

I  should  think  not! 

MARTHA 

Who's   going  to   pay   your  debts   if  anything 
should  happen  to  your  father? 
CORNELIUS  (with  confidence) 

Why,  my  wife's  father,  of  course. 

MARTHA 

That's  all  very  well  for  you,  Cornelius.    You're 
a  man. 
CORNELIUS 
Then  why  are  you  arguing? 

MARTHA 

What  about  your  sister  ?    Who's  willing  to  marry 
a  girl  without  a  penny? 
CORNELIUS 

Sister'll  have  no  difficulty.     She's  got  enough 
94 


THE    FAMILY    EXIT 


sense  to  compromise  herself  with  a  millionaire, 
like  any  other  poor  society  girl. 

MARTHA 

Eugenia  will  do  no  such  thing. 

EUGENIA 

Mother! 

MARTHA 

There's  been  enough  talk  about  the  family 
already.  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  treat  Uncle 
Peter  cordially,  in  spite  of  everything. 

RUTHERFORD 

Yes,  we'd  better  act  discreetly.  It  is  no  use 
antagonizing  Peter;  he's  very  eccentric.  He 
may  object  strongly  to  any  criticism. 

MARTHA 

Very  well,  I  shall  do  so — but  it  will  be  for 
your  sake,  Eugenia. 

EUGENIA 

Don't  bother  about  me,  Mother. 

MARTHA  (to  Eugenia) 

Your  uncle  can  be  of  great  assistance  to  you. 
Before  he  went  to  Paris  he  moved  in  the  very 
smartest  circles — if  you  can  win  his  affections — 
in  the  way  you  seem  to  win  the  affections  of  all 
the  poor  young  men  in  town — you  should  have 
no  difficulty  in  making  an  excellent  match  this 
season. 

O'ROURKE  (off  stage,  right) 
This  way,  sir. 

(Enter,  right,  Peter  Rutherford-Vandusen.  Peter 
is  an  aristocratic-looking  old  man,  with  a  keen 
sense  of  sarcastic  humor,  and  a  distaste  of  con 
ventional  forms.  The  family  stares  at  him.) 

95 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

RUTHERFORD  (crosses  to  Peter) 

Why— Peter! 
PETER  (to  Rutherford) 

What  the  dickens  did  you  want  to  come  here 

for? 

RUTHERFORD 

Why— 

PETER 

Who  told  you  I  was  here? 

RUTHERFORD 

Tillotson. 

PETER 

Tillotson  is  a  gabbling  fool.  I  shall  get  another 
lawyer  immediately.  Why  did  you  come, 
anyway? 

RUTHERFORD 

We  came  to  welcome  you,  Peter.  You  don't 
seem  very  glad  to  see  us.  How  are  you  ? 

PETER 

Oh,  I'm  quite  well.  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I 
suppose  this  is  the  family,  eh?  Hello,  Martha. 
Why,  I  hardly  recognize  you;  you've  grown  so 
stout.  Is  this  Cornelius?  Why  didn't  you  come 
to  see  me  when  you  were  in  Paris  ? 

CORNELIUS 

I  called  several  times,  Uncle,  but  you  were  al 
ways  out. 

PETER 

That's  right.  I  remember  seeing  you  through 
the  window.  I  vowed  I  wouldn't  see  any  of  the 
family  for  twenty  years,  and  I  kept  my  word. 

MARTHA 

You  always  were  eccentric,  Peter. 
96 


THE    FAMILY    EXIT 


PETER 

Not  really,  Martha.  When  a  man  does  a  ra 
tional  thing,  the  world  calls  him  eccentric.  I 
had  nothing  in  common  with  any  member  of 
my  family,  so  I  stayed  away  from  them  for 
twenty  years.  There's  nothing  eccentric  about 
that! 

MARTHA 

I  hope  you've  gotten  over  those  queer  ideas, 
Peter.  But  you  haven't  met  your  niece, 
Eugenia. 

PETER 

Oh,  Eugenia !  (He  goes  to  shake  hands  with  her. 
She  kisses  him.)  Eugenia,  you're  just  as  im 
pulsive  as  your  mother  was — thirty  years  ago. 

EUGENIA 
Am  I,  Uncle? 

MARTHA  (piqued) 

I  hope  your  uncle's  terrible  memory  isn't  as 
good  as  it  was. 

PETER 

It  gets  better  every  day.  Well,  Rutherford,  I 
suppose  you  know  I'm  in  a  fine  mess  here. 

RUTHERFORD  (looking  meaningly  toward  Eugenia) 
Do  you  think  we'd  better  discuss  it  now? 

PETER 

Why  not?  Perhaps  Eugenia  could  suggest 
something.  Modern  young  people  are  probably 
much  more  resourceful  in  affairs  of  this  sort 
than  we  old  stagers. 

MARTHA 

Our  daughter  has  been  educated  in  one  of  our 
most  exclusive  schools.  You  may  speak  freely 
before  her,  Peter. 

97 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

EUGENIA  (sweetly) 

Anything   Uncle   Peter   does   must   surely   be 

quite  proper. 
PETER 

You're  mistaken,  my  child.     I'm  not  nearly 

as  old  as  I  look. 

EUGENIA 

I  know.    You're  forty-five! 

PETER 

No,  little  flatterer,  fifty-five.  That's  why  I'm 
here  again,  to  die  in  peace  on  good  American 
soil. 

EUGENIA 

Don't  talk  that  way,  Uncle.  Why,  we  are  going 
to  have  the  loveliest  time  with  you.  I  have  it 
all  arranged.  We  are  going  to  our  place  at 
Newport  next  month,  and  you'll  come  with  us, 
won't  you?  We  have  perfectly  wonderful  golf, 
tennis,  swimming,  riding,  and  polo,  and  this 
year  there's  going  to  be  hydro-aeroplaning, 
too.  And  there'll  be  lots  of  parties,  and  dances, 
and  dinners,  and  bazaars,  and  things  like  that! 
You'll  enjoy  it  so  much. 
PETER 

Hm !  I  don't  know.  It  sounds  rather  strenuous. 
I  don't  think  my  nerves  could  stand  it — es 
pecially  the  hydro-aeroplaning! 

MARTHA 

You'll  certainly  live  with  us  while  you're  here, 
Peter.  We  shall  all  feel  quite  hurt  if  you  don't. 
We're  looking  forward  to  it,  and  I'm  sure  you'll 
enjoy  it.  Cousin  Alice  and  Cousin  Susan  are 
going  to  spend  the  summer  with  us,  too. 


THE    FAMILY    EXIT 


PETER  (alarmed) 

Cousin  Alice  and  Cousin  Susan — 
RUTHERFORD  (grimly) 

Yes. 

PETER 

Are  those  two  old  cats  still  in  existence?  I 
thought  they  were  dead  and  buried  long  ago ! 

MARTHA 

Peter,  Peter!    The  same  old  Peter! 

PETER 

Martha!  Martha!  The  same  old  family! 

MARTHA 

We  all  feel  so  glad  having  you  back  with  us. 
Peter.  Cousin  Augustus  and  Honoria  live  in 
the  next  cottage  to  us.  They  have  six  children — 
all  splendid  young  people — and  there  are  Wil- 
helmina's  twins,  and  the  three  grandchildren, 
the  cutest  things!  They're  all  dying  to  meet 
you! 

RUTHERFORD  (as  though  it  were  all  settled) 

Of  course,  you'll  stay  with  us,  Peter.  We're 
planning  a  little  family  party  for  you.  After 
twenty  years  of  absence,  we  must  celebrate 
your  return  to  us.  The  family  welcomes  you, 
Peter,  in  spite  of  your  strange  behavior  to  us 
all.  But  once  a  Vandusen,  always  a  Vandusen ! 

PETER 

Yes — it  seems  like  fate. 

MARTHA 

Then  we  can  count  on  you  for  the  summer? 
PETER 

I  don't  know.    (Dubiously?)    What  about  Elise? 
ALL  (together) 

Elise? 

99 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

EUGENIA 

Who  is  Elise? 
MARTHA  (to  Eugenia) 

Never  mind,  dear. 
PETER 

Of  course,  I  can't  leave  Elise. 

RUTHERFORD 

But,  Peter,  you  don't  expect — 

PETER 

But  I've  brought  her  over  from  Paris.  De 
cidedly  no.  I  can't  leave  my  Elise. 

MARTHA 

But  she  can't  stay  in  America.     They  won't 
allow  her  in.    That  person  told  us  so  just  now. 
PETER  (crosses  to  Martha) 

Well,  I'll  let  you  into  a  secret.  Tillotson's  been 
down  to  Washington  for  me.  He  has  a  little 
influence,  as  you  know,  and  he's  arranged  every 
thing.  She's  going  to  be  allowed  to  land — in 
fact,  both  of  us  will  be  allowed  to  land  to 
gether. 

RUTHERFORD 

It  seems  to  me  it  was  very  foolish  of  you,  Peter, 
to  have  attempted  to  bring  the  lady  with  you. 

PETER 

That's  an  original  observation  of  yours,  Ruther 
ford. 

CORNELIUS 

Why  didn't  you  keep  it  quiet,  Uncle? 
PETER 

Naturally,  I  tried  to  keep  it  quiet.  But  you 
don't  know  my  Elise.  She's  so  absent-minded. 
We  had  separate  staterooms  on  board,  but  the 
poor  thing  kept  walking  into  my  cabin  all  the 

ICO 


THE    FAMILY    EXIT 


time  we  were  crossing.  She  was  sea-sick,  poor 
child,  and  whenever  she  feels  ill,  she  can't  help 
acting  naturally.  But  the  upshot  of  it  was, 
everyone  was  scandalized! 

MARTHA  (dryly) 

I  should  think  they  might  be. 

PETER 

Some  stupid  old  busybody  reported  it  to  the 
authorities,  so  they  made  inquiries  and  stopped 
us  here. 

EUGENIA 
Why  didn't  you  marry  her,  Uncle? 

MARTHA 

Marry  her!    Eugenia!    The  idea! 
PETER 

Well,  I'd  often  thought  of  marrying  Elise — but 
then — I  didn't.  Elise's  father  was  a  cab-driver 
— her  mother  drank  abominably — and  one  of 
her  brothers  was  a  convict.  And  you  know  what 
the  French  are.  Once  you  marry  into  a  French 
family,  death  alone  can  separate  you  from  your 
relatives ! 

MARTHA 

You  were  quite  right,  Peter.  You  couldn't  pos 
sibly  have  put  up  with  such  awful  people.  But 
I'm  sure  there  is  some  way  we  can  arrange  it, — 
so  you  could  stay  with  us  yourself.  You're  a 
man  of  the  world,  Peter.  You  don't  have  to 
carry  your  establishment  on  your  back,  like  a 
snail. 

PETER 

I've  thought  it  all  out  already,  Martha.  Tillot- 
son  tells  me  that  even  if  Elise  were  allowed 
to  land  here,  I  couldn't  go  with  her  from  New 

1 01 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

York  City  to  Jersey  without  breaking  another 
peculiar  law. 

RUTHERFORD 

Yes —  that  is  so —  the  Mann  Act. 

PETER 

I'm  certainly  annoyed  with  Mr.  Mann,  who 
ever  he  may  be.  You  see,  we  planned  to  tour 
the  States  together  later  on,  but  if  we  did,  I 
should  break  this  law  at  least  fifty  times  and 
probably  pass  the  rest  of  my  old  age  in  jail. 

CORNELIUS 

Don't  worry  about  that,  Uncle!  I'll  put  you 
on  to  some  dodges  to  get  around  that. 

PETER 

I'm  too  old  for  dodges,  my  boy.  If  Mr.  Mann 
wants  to  prevent  people  traveling,  let  him  do 
it.  Tillotson  and  I  have  fixed  everything. 
I've  been  a  confirmed  bachelor  all  my  life,  but 
I've  given  up  my  freedom  to  enter  the  Land 
of  Liberty. 

RUTHERFORD 

Given  up  your  freedom  to  enter  the  Land  of 
Liberty? 
PETER 
Yes.    This  morning  Elise  and  I  were  married! 

RUTHERFORD 

Married! 

PETER 

Yes;   it   solves    all   our   problems.     The   cab- 
driver  papa-in-law,  the  alcoholic  mamma-in-law, 
the  convict  brother-in-law  are  three  thousand 
miles  away — so  Elise  and  I  are  married. 
102 


THE    FAMILY    EXIT 


MARTHA  (indignantly) 

Married!    Do  you  mean  you've  married  a  kept 

woman  ? 
PETER 

I  had  to  keep  her,  Martha.    When  you  see  her, 

you'll  see  she's  quite  unable  to  support  herself. 
EUGENIA 

Is  that  woman  my  aunt,  Uncle? 
PETER 

Yes;  and  you'll  find  her  a  very  charming  aunt, 

too.    If  you  like  her,  we'll  both  come  and  stay 

with  you. 
MARTHA  (crossing  to  Eugenia) 

Do  you  mean  to  suggest  bringing  a  person  of 

that  sort  into  our  home? 
PETER 

Why  not?    The  United  States  Government  has 

guaranteed  her  100  per  cent  pure.    What  more 

do  you  want? 

RUTHERFORD 

Peter!    Your  marrying  her  is  nothing  less  than 
an  affront  to  the  family. 
PETER 

Rutherford,  I'm  surprised  at  you.  You  should 
be  delighted  to  know  that,  like  a  Vandusen, 
I've  acted  honorably. 

MARTHA 

It  may  be  honorable  to  her — but  it's  dishonor 
able  to  us ! 

RUTHERFORD 

It's  perfectly  stupid  to  talk  of  acting  honorably, 
Peter.  If  it  were  necessary  for  a  man  to 
marry  a  woman  of  that  sort  to  be  honorable, 
where  would  any  of  our  own  girls  find  husbands? 
103 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

PETER 

Well,  it's  too  late  to  discuss  the  ethics  of  the 
situation.  We're  married,  and  that  settles  it. 
Would  you  like  to  meet  your  sister-in-law, 
Martha? 

MARTHA 

I  shall  certainly  not  meet  her!     Neither  shall 

Eugenia! 
PETER  (points  to  the  door,  left) 

Elise  has  been  waiting  in  there  to  see  you  for 

nearly  half  an  hour.    Do  you  want  to  meet  her? 

(He  goes  to  the  door,  left.) 
EUGENIA  (excited) 

Mother!     She's  in   the  room  with  the  white 

slaves ! 
MARTHA  (making for  the  door) 

Rutherford,  I  insist  that  we  go,  at  once! 

RUTHERFORD 

Yes,  we'll  all  go.     Come,  Eugenia! 
(They  leave  indignantly.    Cornelius  lingers.) 

PETER  (to  Cornelius) 

Do  you  want  to  meet  your  aunt,  Cornelius? 
CORNELIUS  (enthusiastically) 

You  bet  I  do,  Uncle.     I  guess  she's  some  kid, 

eh? 
PETER  (with  a  queer  smile) 

Well,  she  is — in  a  way. 
CORNELIUS   (knowingly) 

You've  got  to  hand  it  to  the  French  chickens 

when  it  comes  to  class,  Uncle.    I've  been  there 

myself — so  I  know. 

(Peter  opens  the  door.,  left.    Enter  Elise,  a  charm 
ing  little  white-haired  old  lady,  dressed  in  a  black 
104 


THE    FAMILY    EXIT 


satin  dress,  with  a  white  lace  collar.  She  is  dig 
nified,  yet  sweet  in  her  manner.  Cornelius  lets 
out  a  whistle  of  surprise.  Peter  introduces 
Cornelius.) 

PETER 
Your  nephew,  Cornelius. 

ELISE 

Bon  jour,  m'sieu!    I  speak  not  good  englise. 
CORNELIUS   (with  a  dreadful  accent} 

Bon  jour,  tante.     Comment  vous  allez  vous? 
ELISE   (smiling  graciously) 

Vouz  parlez  franc,  ais? 
CORNELIUS  (confused) 

Oui,  madame —  Well,  Uncle,  I  guess  I'll  beat 

it!     (He  does  so,  double  quick  time.) 

ELISE 

Why  does  he  go  so  quick?    Do  I  frighten  him? 
PETER 

He  must  have  been  disappointed,  little  wife. 

He  was  hoping  to  find  something  in  the  nature 

of  what  he  termed  "a  chicken". 
ELISE  (puzzled) 

A  chick-en?     Ah — poulet!     What  you  mean, 

Peter? 

PETER 

He   didn't   know   we've   lived   together   these 

past  twenty  years. 
ELISE 

But  the  family — the  dreadful  family,  that  you 

hate  so  much  ? 
PETER 

Gone,  dear,  gone! 

105 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

ELISE 

Gone?     C'est  merveilleux!     How  do   you  get 
rid  of  these  'orrible  people  so  easy? 
PETER 

By  marrying  you,  dear.  In  France,  I  got  rid 
of  your  family  by  not  marrying  you.  In  America, 
I  get  rid  of  my  family  by  marrying  you. 

CURTAIN 


106 


PIE 

A  COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 


PIE  was  first  produced  by  the  Provincetown  Players 

at  the  Playwrights'  Theatre,  New  York,  in  January 

1920,  with  the  following  cast: 

CLIFFORD  QUILTER  JAMES  LIGHT 

DIANTHA,  his  wife  EDIE  HINEMANN 

PATROLMAN  DAN  O'DONAHUE  HOWARD  MCLENNON 

ANNIE  MULLIGAN  ALICE  ROSTETTER 

Produced  under  the  direction  of  THE  AUTHOR 


COPYRIGHT,  1919 

BY  LAWRENCE  LANGNER 

All  Rights  Reserved 


PIE 

SCENE 

A  comfortable  room  in  Annie  Mulligan's  apart 
ment.  In  the  center  is  a  small  table  covered 
with  a  white  table-cloth  and  laid  for  two  people. 
Notwithstanding  the  commonplace  furniture,  the 
room  is  cosy,  and  not  unattractive.  The  presence 
of  an  armchair  and  desk,  newspapers  on  the  floor, 
books  scattered  everywhere,  and  a  general  air  of 
being  lived  in,  indicates  that  the  room  is  not  used 
exclusively  as  a  dining-room.  There  is  a  door, 
center,  leading  to  the  hall.  Viewed  from  the  audi 
ence,  there  is  a  window  in  the  right  wall,  and  a 
door  in  the  left  wall  leading  to  the  kitchen;  a 
bright,  green  flower-pot  stands  in  front  of  the 
window. 

Clifford  Quilter  and  Annie  Mulligan  are  finish 
ing  dinner.  Clifford  alternately  gnaws  the  end 
of  a  chicken  bone,  and  takes  a  puff  at  his  pipe. 
Annie,  after  drinking  some  coffee  from  her  saucer, 
divides  an  apple  pie  into  large  portions  with 
mathematical  precision. 

Clifford  is  a  tall,  mild-looking  per  son,  rather  boyish 
in  his  enthusiasm  over  the  chicken.  He  wears 
a  brightly-colored  dressing-gown  and  carpet  slip 
pers;  he  looks  dreamily  up  at  the  ceiling  through 
a  pair  of  heavy  horn-rimmed  glasses.  His  utter 
lack  of  table  manners  shows  that  he  is  very  much 
at  home. 

109 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

Annie  is  a  large,  blonde  Irishwoman;  the  gen 
erous  curves  of  her  body  indicate  an  easy-going 
disposition  and  an  indulgence  in  good  food.  Her 
smile  is  contagious.  There  is  something  very  ap 
petizing  in  the  sight  of  Annie,  as  she  cuts  a  gen 
erous  portion  of  apple  pie,  and  balancing  it  neatly 
on  the  end  of  a  bread-knife^  offers  it  to  Clifford. 

ANNIE  (beaming  on  Clifford) 

Have  a  piece  of  pie,  dearie! 
CLIFFORD 

I'm  not  through  with  the  chicken  yet,  Annie. 

(He  looks  over  the  debris  of  the  chicken  on  the 

plate.)    What's  become  of  the  otjier  leg? 
ANNIE  (angrily) 

Sure,  d'ye  expect  a  chicken  to  have  three  legs? 

Two    you've    eaten,    and    now    you're    lookin' 

for  the  third! 

CLIFFORD 

How  absent-minded  of  me.  I  was  thinking  of 
the  plot  of  a  new  story.  Let  me  tell  it  to  you! 

ANNIE  (incensed) 

What  a  man!  Always  having  plots  at  dinner 
time! 

CLIFFORD 

But,  Annie — 

ANNIE 

Why  don't  ye  work  while  ye  work  (swallows 
a  mouthful),  an'  eat  while  ye  eat? 

CLIFFORD  (apologetically) 
Why — I  was  eating,  Annie. 

ANNIE  (still  angry) 

I  know  you  was,  Clifford,  but  you  was  payin' 
no  attention   to  what  you  was  eatin'.     Half 
no 


PIE 

the  day  I'm  in  the  kitchen,  cookin'  the  tasty 
meals  for  you — and  you — no  sooner  do  you  get 
your  teeth  into  a  nice  young  broiler,  before  you 
have  a  plot, — an'  by  the  time  you're  through 
wid  it,  the  chicken's  nearly  all  gone,  an'  you 
no  more  tastin'  it  than  if  it  was  cornmeal  mush. 
It's  heart-breakin'  work,  it  is,  Clifford,  cookin' 
for  a  man  like  you! 

CLIFFORD  (rises  and  pats  her  consolingly) 

Come,  Annie,  dear.  Don't  feel  hurt.  I  do  ap 
preciate  your  cooking — immensely.  Your 
chicken  was  a  masterpiece;  there  was  an  in 
definable  something  about  its  flavor,  Annie, 
that  just  carried  me  away — over  the  chimney- 
tops  and  roofs  of  the  city — away  to  the  balmy 
countryside — into  Elysian  Fields  of  sunshine, 
into  drowsy,  fulsome  farmyards,  with  the 
browsing  cattle  and  clucking  hens.  Then,  Annie, 
there  was  woven  in  my  mind,  a  simple,  beauti 
ful  story — of  love  unfulfilled — of  sacrifice  un 
rewarded!  Annie,  I  salute  you.  (He  bows.) 
Your  cooking  is  poetry  to  my  soul. 

ANNIE  (still  angry) 

Your  soul!  Go  along  wid  you.  You  don't 
know  the  difference  between  your  soul  and 
your  stomach. 

CLIFFORD 

How  few  of  us  do  ?  However,  that's  philosophy, 
and  thank  the  Lord,  you  don't  understand 
philosophy.  (He  sits.)  Please  give  me  a  piece 
of  pie — and  see  whether  I  appreciate  it! 

(Annie  helps  him  to  pie.) 
in 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

ANNIE  (happily) 
There! 

CLIFFORD    (adoringly,   after   having   choked  down 
a  large  mouthful) 

Wonderful  apple  pie!  Wonderful  apple  pie! 
How  I  have  sung  of  your  delicate  aroma — the 
satisfying  qualities  of  your  amber-colored  sub 
stance — the  exquisite  crispness  of  your  daintiest 
of  crusts!  And  above  all,  O  pie — excelling — 
nay — eclipsing  all  those  other  virtues — more 
precious  than  all  the  rest — I  sing  the  praise 
of  your  delectable  digestibility. 

ANNIE  (wreathed  in  smiles) 
Don't  talk  so  much.     Eat! 

(Clifford  needs  no  second  invitation.) 

CLIFFORD 

Do  you  remember  how  I  immortalized  your  pie 
in  my  last  novel,  Annie,  dear?    A  review  of  it 
has  just  come  out  in  the  Literary  Digest. 
ANNIE 

No! 

CLIFFORD 

Let  me  read  it  to  you.  (Clifford  takes  a  clipping 
out  of  his  pocket  and  reads.)  "In  these  days 
when  morbid  introspection  holds  the  literary 
stage,  when  novelist  after  novelist  takes  a 
gruesome,  macabre-like  delight  in  analyzing 
and  dissecting  the  grossest  phases  of  man 
kind's  abnormalities,  how  refreshing  it  is  to 
come  upon  a  book,  like  'Happy  Firesides/  by 
Clifford  Quilter,  and  to  know  that  clean,  whole 
some  literature  is  not  yet  dead  in  America. 
'Happy  Firesides/  a  plain,  simple  story  of  the 
112 


PIE 

love  of  a  good  man  for  a  good  woman,  and  the 
spiritual  happiness  their  unselfishness  brought 
them,  should  be  read  by  every  one  who  believes 
in  upholding  the  sacred  traditions  of  the  home." 
(To  Annie}  There!  What  do  you  think  of 
that?  (Annie  begins  to  weep  in  a  very  ungrace 
ful  manner.}  What's  the  matter? 

ANNIE  (bursts  out) 

I  think  you  ought  to  leave  me  and  go  back  to 
your   wife. 

CLIFFORD  (startled) 

What!     Go  back  to  my  wife?     What  an  un 
pleasant    thought ! 

ANNIE 

But,  Clifford- 

CLIFFORD    (interrupting  quickly    and  holding   out 
his  plate] 

Some  more  pie,  dear.     I  have  a  good  appetite 
today.    Dont  make  me  lose  it. 

ANNIE 

Sure,  an'  it  does  me  heart  good  to  see  you  eatin' 
so  well,  Clifford.     But  it's  back  to  your  wife 
you  should  go,  dearie. 
CLIFFORD  (rises  and  caresses  her) 

Come,  Annie,   you've  never  asked  me  to  go 
back  to  my  wife  before.     Be  reasonable,  dear! 

ANNIE   (gulps) 

Sure,  I'm  tryin'  to  be  reasonable.     D'ye  think 
I  want  you  to  go  away  and  leave  me,  after  the 
happy  days  we've  had  together? 
CLIFFORD 

Then  why  do  you  ask  me  to  go?    (Suspiciously.) 
Somebody  must  have   been   putting  silly  no- 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

tions  into  your  head.  Whatever  gave  you  such 
a  stupid  idea? 

ANNIE 

I — I — I've  been  reading  "Happy  Firesides." 

CLIFFORD  (taken  aback) 

You've  read  "Happy  Firesides"!  Why,  Annie, 
I  thought  you  never  read  anything  (sotto  voce) 
outside  of  the  New  York  American.  (He  sits.) 

ANNIE 

I  picked  it  up  off  the  floor  last  week.  I  never 
thought  I'd  understand  it,  wid  all  them  big 
long  words  you  use  when  you're  talkin',  but, 
honest,  Clifford,  it  didn't  seem  no  more  harder 
than  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  an'  just  as  inter 
esting  too. 

CLIFFORD  (indignantly) 

My  dear  Annie,  please  don't  compare  me  with 
Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

ANNIE  (reassuring) 

Sure,  an'  I  didn't  mean  her  no  harm,  dearie. 

CLIFFORD  (sarcastically) 
Indeed! 

ANNIE  (sentimentally) 

What  you  said  about  love  and  the  home,  an' 
all  them  things,  honey,  was  just  beautiful,  an', 
what's  more,  they're  true!  It  just  broke  my 
heart  thinkin'  how  you  was  livin'  wid  me,  in 
stead  of  wid  your  wife,  an'  your  thoughts  so 
lovely  and  pure,  an'  all.  Honest,  Clifford,  the 
day  I  finished  readin'  it,  I  had  to  go  out  into 
the  kitchen  and  peel  onions,  just  to  have  an 
excuse  if  the  neighbors  seen  me  cryin' ! 

CLIFFORD  (comforts  her,  taking  her  hands  across  the 
table) 

114 


PIE 

Come,  come,  my  poor  old  Annie!  Why  didn't 
you  tell  your  Clifford  all  about  it  before  ? 

ANNIE 

I  just  couldn't,  dearie.  I  thought  you'd  think 
me  ungrateful  after  we've  been  so  happy 
together.  You've  been  so  kind,  too. 

CLIFFORD  (with  great  sincerity) 

Kind?  Why,  Annie,  it's  you  that's  been  kind. 
You've  taken  me  under  your  wing,  dear;  you've 
been  mother  and  sweetheart  to  me — all  in 
one.  Don't  talk  of  my  being  kind,  Annie, 
you're  the  kindest  person  in  the  world,  dear,  and 
I  do,  do  love  you! 

ANNIE 

Sure,  you're  that  nice,  makin'  love  to  me,  Clif 
ford,  I  feel  like  tellin'  Dan  O' Donahue  to  go 
to  the  divil. 

CLIFFORD  (rises,  surprised) 
Dan  O'Donahue?    Who's  he? 

ANNIE 

He's  me  cousin. 

CLIFFORD 

Your  cousin?     How  was  it  you've  never  men 
tioned  him  before? 
ANNIE 

I  was  kind-a  ashamed  to. 

CLIFFORD 

Ashamed?     Why? 
ANNIE  (apologetically) 

Well — you  see — he's  a  policeman. 
CLIFFORD 

Oh! 

ANNIE 

He  says  we  ain't  livin'  moral. 
"5 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

CLIFFORD 

Of  course  hed  say  that !    What  do  you  expect  a 

policeman  to  know  about  morality? 
ANNIE 

And  it's  right  he  is.    Sure,  you  say  so  yourself. 
CLIFFORD  (astonished) 

I  say  so? 

ANNIE 

Yes,  you  say  it  in  "Happy  Firesides." 
CLIFFORD  (his  voice  failing) 
I  do? 

ANNIE 

Don't  you  remember  how  Jack  Maitland  went 
back  to  his  wife? 

CLIFFORD  (taken  aback) 

That's  true.  He  did.  But  then,  dear,  I'm 
no  Jack  Maitland.  Have  you  a  copy  of  the 
book  here? 

ANNIE  (points  to  the  desk) 

Sure,  it's  there,  in  the  drawer.  (Clifford  rises 
and  fumbles  at  the  drawer)  Can't  you  find  it? 
It's  underneath  the  Bible. 

CLIFFORD 

Here  it  is.  (He  produces  the  book,  turns  pages.) 
Now,  Annie,  listen  to  this:  (He  reads)  "One 
wishes  that  some  new  form  of  descriptive  art 
could  be  evolved  to  describe  a  man  like  Jack 
Maitland.  Something  more  graphic  than  ver 
biage  is  needed  to  do  justice  to  his  portrayal. 
Jack  Maitland  was  a  man  of  more  than  rugged 
physique.  Health  and  strength  radiated  from 
his  lithe,  muscular  body.  His  flashing  eyes,  his 
ruby  lips,  his  white  teeth  glinting  in  the  sunlight, 
all  told  the  tale  of  masculine  virility,  of  bound- 
116 


PIE 

less  energy,  of  courage,  skill,  and  determina 
tion.  "    (He  half  closes  the  book.)    There,  Annie, 
I  ask  you,  is  that  like  me? 
ANNIE  (dubiously) 

Well,  it's  somethin'  like  you. 

CLIFFORD 

I  have  white  teeth. 
ANNIE  (encouragingly) 

Sure,  it's  too  modest  you  are,  Clifford. 

CLIFFORD 

But  listen  to  this:  "Like  all  who  enjoy  a  rude, 
vigorous  health,  his  appetite  was  voracious  and 
his  digestion  like  that  of  an  ostrich."  Is  that 
like  me?  (He  thrusts  the  book  at  her.) 

ANNIE 

There's  nothing  wrong  wid  your  appetite. 

CLIFFORD  (closes  the  book) 

Annie,  the  hero  of  this  book  had  courage  and 
determination.  In  addition,  he  had  an  excel 
lent  digestion.  He  was  able  to  return  to  his  wife. 

ANNIE  (emphatically) 
And  so  must  you,  dearie. 

CLIFFORD 

I've  none  of  those  things,  and  I'm  going  to  stay 

right  here. 
ANNIE   (dogmatically) 

What's  right   for  Jack  Maitland,   Clifford,   is 

right  for  you!     You  mustn't  try  to  make  me 

believe  that  wrong  is  right. 
CLIFFORD  (hotly) 

Wrong  and  right  are  merely  relative. 
ANNIE  (positively) 

And  it's  relatives  that  causes  all  the  trouble. 
117 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

Dan  says  they  won't  ever  forgive  me  as  long 
as  you  live  here. 
CLIFFORD 

Suppose  they  don't.   What  do  you  care? 

ANNIE 

Sure,  I've  got  to  consider  my  relatives.  Dan 
says  so! 

CLIFFORD 

Dan,  Dan,  Dan!    How  often  do  you  see  Dan? 

ANNIE 

Why,  he  comes  here  to  dinner  once  in  a  while 
when  you're  away. 

CLIFFORD  (significantly) 

Ah!  While  I'm  away!  He  has  probably  heard 
you  inherited  a  little  money.  Does  he  know 
about  it? 

ANNIE  (with  rising  emotion) 

Sure,  but  it  isn't  that.  It  isn't  only  what  Dan 
says.  (She  points  to  the  book.)  You  said  it  ain't 
right  yourself.  I  ain't  happy  no  more.  If  you 
don't  go,  /  shall  have  to! 

CLIFFORD  (with  feeling) 

Come,  Annie,  my  darling,  you're  not  serious, 
are  you?  You  don't  understand  what  this 
means  to  me.  You  know  I  can't  write  at  home, 
with  Diantha  fussing  around  the  house,  grum 
bling  every  time  a  room  is  untidy,  and  a  ter 
rible  cook,  who  martyrs  me  at  every  meal! 

ANNIE  (forcefully) 

Right  comes  before  writin'. 

CLIFFORD  (pleading) 

You're  such  a  simple,  sweet  dear,  Annie,  you 
don't  realize  the  subtle  relation  between  your 
exquisite    food    and    my    spiritual    well-being. 
118 


PIE 

When  I  was  at  home,  dear,  the  matter  of  food 
was  left  by  my  wife  to  a  succession  of  incom 
petent  hussies  who  called  themselves  cooks,  and 
set  out  to  murder  me  with  their  villainous  con 
coctions.  Thank  goodness,  no  single  one  stayed 
long  enough  to  put  me  completely  underground. 

ANNIE    (melting} 
How  you  do  talk! 

CLIFFORD  (oratorically) 

What  happened  to  me  on  the  delicatessen  diet 
they  fed  me?  They  poisoned  me  with  pickles. 
They  tortured  me  with  ptomaine!  I  was  the 
victim  of  every  form  of  gastric  disorder.  I 
became  morbid.  I  wrote  delicatessen  novels. 
I  delved  into  the  vinegars  and  acids  of  life.  I 
plunged  deep  into  the  brine  of  human  misery. 
I  wallowed  in  the  oil  of  human  slime !  And  then 
I  came  to  you,  Annie, — acidified,  salted,  pickled. 
And  you  healed  me — healed  me  with  the  blessed 
salve  of  your  good  home  cooking.  Annie, 
youVe  saved  me  once.  Don't  throw  me  back 
to  home  and  indigestion. 

ANNIE   (distraught) 

Oh,  dearie,  I  just  don't  know  what  to  do.  It's 
terrible  for  us  to  be  leadin'  a  life  of  shame, 
and  it  agreein'  wid  you  so  well! 

CLIFFORD  (indignantly) 
A  life  of  shame.    Who  said  that? 

ANNIE 

Them's  Dan's  own  words. 

CLIFFORD 

What  do  you  care  for  the  opinion  of  a  man  like 
Dan?  He  has  the  common,  conventional  point 
of  view  about  morality.  Artists  are  above 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

morality.  In  living  with  me,  Annie,  no  matter 
what  the  world  may  say,  you  show  a  fine  pagan 
spirit.  (He  sits  in  the  armchair.} 

ANNIE 

Pagan!    Go  'long  wid  ye — it's  a  Catholic  I  am. 

CLIFFORD     (takes  a  clipping  from  his  pocket.  Annie 
stands,  center) 

See  what  they  say  here,  dear — "American 
literature  owes  much  to  Mr.  Quilter  for  show 
ing  us  the  blessings  of  the  simple,  domestic  vir 
tues,  and  the  quiet  delights  of  family  life." 
I  can't  write  that  on  delicatessen,  Annie  dear. 

ANNIE  (bursts) 

I  can't  help  it,  Clifford,  I  want  to  be  an  honest 
woman. 

CLIFFORD 

What  could  be  .more  honest,  more  honorable, 
than  to  help  me  write  novels  like  "Happy  Fire 
sides,"  which  extol  the  ideal  of  happy  homes? 
I  appeal  to  your  sense  of  duty,  Annie.    You're 
not  only  making  me  happy,  dear,  you're  making 
men  happy,  and  women  happy,  and  children 
happy,  all  over  the  United  States,  and  even  in 
England. 
ANNIE  (dubiously) 
Am  I? 

CLIFFORD 

And  you  must  keep  it  up,  dear,  you  mustn't 
stop.    Why,  Annie,  rather  than  have  this  calam 
ity  happen,  I'll  go  to  Diantha,  get  a  divorce, 
and  marry  you! 
ANNIE  (aghast) 

An'  have  me  called  a  homewrecker  by  every 
body? 

120 


PIE 

CLIFFORD 

No,  dear,  no! 
ANNIE  (a  light  dawning  on  her) 

I'm  a  vampire,  that's  what  I  am. 
CLIFFORD  (soothingly ,  rising} 

A   vampire!     Why,    the   idea!     Nobody   will 

think  you  a  vampire,  dear. 

ANNIE 

Yes  they  will,  dearie,  if  I  give  way  to  myself 
and  drive  your  wife  out,  and  wreck  her  home, 
and  ruin  her  life.  I  will  be  a  vampire.  I'll  lose 
my  self-respect. 

CLIFFORD  (with  bravado) 

I'd  like  to  see  that  Dan  O'Donahue!  I'd  tell 
him  what  I  think  of  him. 

ANNIE  (assuringly) 

He's  goin'  to  be  here  in  a  minute. 

CLIFFORD   (his  bravado  disappearing} 

Well,  I  guess  I  don't  want  to  see  him,  anyway. 
He's  caused  enough  mischief. 

ANNIE  (persuasively) 

Run  along  before  he  comes,  Clifford.  Why 
don't  you  go  back  home  for  a  few  days,  honey 
dear,  and  we'll  both  think  it  over.  Do  it  just 
to  please  me.  I  want  to  feel  right  about  it, 
honest  I  do. 

CLIFFORD   (tenderly) 

I  know  you  do,  Annie.  Very  well,  I'll  go  and 
talk  it  over  with  Diantha.  Where  are  my  shoes  ? 

(He  slips  off  his  dressing-gown,  which  he  throws  on 
the  floor •,  and  kicks  off  his  slippers.    They  hunt  on 
their  hands  and  knees  for  his  shoes,  which  are 
found  under  the  furniture?) 
121 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

ANNIE 

I  sure  will  miss  you,  dearie! 

CLIFFORD  (sitting  in  the  armchair  and  putting  on  his 
shoes) 

We'll  both  be  sorry,  Annie.  But  we  won't 
quarrel  over  it,  dear.  We  never  have  quarreled, 
and  we're  not  going  to  begin  now,  are  we  ? 

ANNIE 

Of  course  not.  Kiss  me  goodbye!  (They  kiss 
and  move  toward  the  door.  She  helps  him  with  his 
coat  and  hat.)  Here's  your  umbrella!  Let 
me  wrap  you  up  a  piece  of  pie  to  put  in  your 
pocket,  dearie. 

CLIFFORD 

I'll  take  it  for  remembrance.  But,  no!  I  must 
try  to  forget.  (They  kiss  again.)  Goodbye! 

(Clifford  goes  out,  center.  Annie  reads  from  book 
at  table.) 

ANNIE  (sighs) 

What's  right  is  right!  (She  carries  the  coffee-pot 
to  the  door  leading  to  the  kitchen  and  goes  out.) 

(Enter  Clifford,  center;  he  tiptoes  to  the  pie  dishy 
cuts  a  piece  of  pie,  and  goes  to  the  drawer  of  the 
desk,  from  which  he  takes  some  paper;  he  wraps  the 
pie  up  in  the  paper.  Meanwhile,  the  door,  center, 
opens;  enter  stealthily  Dan  0' Donahue,  a  big,  red- 
faced  policeman.  He  tiptoes  behind  Clifford  and 
as  Clifford  puts  the  parcel  containing  the  pie  in  his 
pocket,  Dan  pounces  upon  him  and  grabs  the 
parcel.) 

DAN 
No  you  don't! 

122 


PIE 

CLIFFORD 

What's  the  matter? 
DAN 

I'll  show  you  what's  the  matter!  What  are 
you  stealing? 

(Annie  comes  in  from  the  kitchen.) 

ANNIE 

Sure,  an'  what  is  the  matter? 

DAN  (excitedly) 

You  sure  are  lucky,  Annie.  I  seen  this  here  guy 
walkin'  up  the  street,  lookin'  kinda  hesitatin' 
and  I  thinks  to  myself,  "There  goes  a  real  hard- 
boiled  egg."  You  can  always  tell  a  criminal 
by  the  shape  of  his  head,  Annie,  an'  when  I 
seen  this  little  runt,  I  sizes  him  up,  and  begins 
to  follow  him.  And  all  of  a  sudden  he  stops 
at  your  front  door,  opens  it  wid  a  key,  mind  you, 
closes  it  quietly,  walks  upstairs  on  tiptoe,  and 
I  just  gets  here  in  time  to  see  him  slip  this  here 
parcel  into  his  pocket. 

CLIFFORD 

But  I   can  explain  everything. 

DAN   (vindictively) 

I  know  you  oily  guys.  You'll  explain  to  the 
judge.  Come  to  look  at  you,  I  know  you. 
You've  been  in  jail  before. 

ANNIE 

Why,  I  know  the  gentleman.  Dan,  let  go  of 
him. 

DAN 

Yer  tryin*  to  shield  him,  Annie.  Don't  waste 
your  pity  on  a  crook  like  him.  What's  in  the 
parcel? 

123 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

ANNIE 

I  tell  you  he  ain't  a  crook. 
DAN  (puzzled) 

Then  who  is  he? 
ANNIE  (hesitates) 

Why — why — he's  my  gentleman  friend. 
DAN  (taken  aback) 

He  is  ?    But  you  said  he  was  a  regular  gentleman ! 
ANNIE 

Didn't  I  tell  you  he  was  an  author? 
DAN 

What's  he  got  in  this  parcel? 

(Annie  opens  the  parcel.) 

ANNIE 

Pie! 

DAN  (positively  aghast) 
Apple  pie!    Well! 

CLIFFORD 

Goodbye,  Annie.    Goodbye,  Mr.  O'Donahue. 
I'm  going  to  ask  the  Police  Commissioner  to 
promote  you. 
DAN  (surly) 

Indade,  an'  where  to? 

CLIFFORD 

They  need  men  like  you  in   the  Intelligence 

Department.    (He  goes  out.) 
DAN 

Has  he  gone  for  good  ? 
ANNIE  (sadly) 

Yes,  I  suppose  so. 
DAN  (approvingly) 

Fine  business.     Yer  doin'  right,  Annie.     Just 

finished  dinner,  eh? 

124 


PIE 

ANNIE 

We  was  just  through. 
DAN 

That's  a  good-lookin'  chicken  ye  have  there! 
ANNIE  (not  very  inviting) 

It's  cold,  or  I'd  ask  you  to  have  some. 
DAN  (not  at  all  abashed) 

Sure,  I  don't  mind  it  cold. 

ANNIE 

Help  yerself  if  you're  hungry.  (She  gives  him 
knife,  fork,  and  plate?) 

DAN 

Thank  you,  Annie.  (He  sits  at  the  table  in  Clif 
ford's  chair?) 

ANNIE  (resigned) 

I'll  get  you  a  cup  of  hot  coffee. 

DAN 
That'll  be  great,  Annie. 

(Annie  goes  of.  Dan  literally  falls  upon  the  food. 
His  appetite  completely  eclipses  that  of  Clifford. 
He  rapidly  devours  the  remains  of  the  chicken, 
as  well  as  the  apple  pie,  and  then  he  unwraps  the 
piece  of  pie  wrapped  up  in  paper  and  consumes 
that  as  well.  Enter  Annie,  left,  with  co/ee.) 

ANNIE 

Here  you  are.     (She  hands  him  a  cup  of  coffee.) 
DAN 

That  smells  like  good  coffee.  (He  drinks.)  I 
had  a  talk  wid  the  family  about  you,  Annie, 
and  it's  goin'  to  be  all  right.  We're  all  willin' 
to  forget  the  past.  Now,  what  I've  bin  thinkin' 
is  this.  We've  got  to  get  the  folks  together,  an* 
125 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

my  idea  is  you  should  have  them  all  here  to 
dinner  next  Sunday* 

ANNIE 

Dan,  will  they  really  forgive  me? 

DAN 

Lave  it  to  me.  You  can  always  rely  on  me, 
Annie,  to  handle  the  folks.  (Surveying  the  empty 
dishes?)  Gosh,  don't  the  walkin'  around  in  the 
fresh  air  make  a  man  hungry? 

ANNIE 

Will  you  have  a  bit  of  cheese? 

DAN 

Why,  I  guess  I  could  make  room  for  a  bite  or  so. 
(Annie  gets  the  cheese  from  the  cupboard?)  Annie, 
I  got  some  good  news  for  yer.  I  told  the  Cap 
tain  of  my  precinct  I  had  a  cousin,  an  unpro 
tected  female,  livin'  in  this  block,  and  he's 
bin  and  transferred  me  to  this  beat,  so  I'll  be 
able  to  look  in  here  every  hour  or  so  for  a  bit 
o' — er — conversation  wid  yer. 

ANNIE  (alarmed  by  the  prospect) 

Well,  now,  if  you're  on  duty,  you  can't  be  comin' 
in  here  all  the  time  now,  can  you  ? 

DAN   (knowingly) 

Lave  it  to  me,  Annie.  Lave  it  to  me!  ( The  bell 
rings.) 

ANNIE 

Who  can  that  be? 
DAN 

Was  you  expectin'  somebody? 
ANNIE  (puzzled) 

Not  a  soul.     I've  got  my  old  dress  on.    Will 

ye  go  to  the  door? 

126 


PIE 

DAN 

All  right. 

(Dan  goes  out,  center.  Annie  stands  near,  peer 
ing  through  a  gap  in  the  door.  Dan  comes  back.} 

DAN 

It's  a  lady  to  see  yer,  an'  she  won't  give  her 

name. 
ANNIE 

It  ain't  the  lady  from  the  laundry? 
DAN 

It's  a  real  swell  dame! 
ANNIE  (flustered) 

Ask  her  in,  Dan,  while  I  go  and  change  my 

dress.  'You  talk  to  her. 
DAN 

What  shall  I  talk  about? 

ANNIE 

Oh,  anything.  Tell  her  about  some  of  them 
swell  murder  cases  you  was  in.  (Annie  goes  off, 
left.} 

(Dan  opens  the  door,  center,  and  calls.) 

DAN  (officially) 

Step  this  way,  please. 

(Enter  Diantha  Quilter.  She  is  a  good-looking^ 
artistically  dressed  woman,  sfightly  freakish  in 
appearance.  She  wears  a  one-piece  gown.  She 
paces  the  room  restlessly  as  she  talks.) 

DIANTHA 

I  hope  I'm  not  intruding? 

DAN 

Sit    down    and    make    yourself  comfortable, 

127  ' 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

ma'am.     Annie  was  just  giving  me  a  little  lunch. 

Maybe  you'd  like  a  drink  of  coffee? 
DIANTHA  (shudders) 

Thank  you.    I  never  take  coffee ! 
DAN 

Would  yer  like  a  bit  of  bread  and  cheese? 
DIANTHA  (shuddering  still  more) 

Thank  you.    I've  just  finished  dinner,  and  I'm 

afraid  it  hasn't  quite  agreed  with  me.    Besides, 

I  never  take  cheese. 
DAN  (attempting  jocularity) 

You  should  be  a  policeman,  ma'am,  ye'd  take 

anything. 
DIANTHA 

That  seems  to  be  so.     I  understand  you  took 

my  husband's  pie. 
DAN  (taken  aback) 

Your  husband!    Was  that  your  husband? 

DIANTHA 

It  was.    Don't  look  so  startled.    I  still  know  my 
husband  when  I  see  him. 
DAN 

I  sure  am  sorry  for  yer,  ma'am.    It's  me  that's 
makin'  him  go  back  to  ye. 

DIANTHA 

Ah !     So  you're  the  cause  of  all  this  trouble. 
DAN 

Trouble  ? 

DIANTHA 

To  think  of  my  husband  being  sent  back  to  me 
by  a  policeman.    It's  humiliating. 

DAN 

Isn't  it  glad  ye  are  to  have  him  back  wid  ye? 
128 


PIE 

DIANTHA 

Glad?    How  absurd.     Don't  you  know  I  don't 

get  along  with  my  husband? 
DAN 

I  nivver  knew  a  thing  about  it.    He  looks  to  me 

like  a  mighty  fine  feller,  ma'am. 
DIANTHA 

I'm  glad  you  like  him.    Perhaps  you'll  help  me. 

Have  you  any  influence  over  the  lady  who  lives 

here,  Mr. —  ? 
DAN 

O'Donahue's  me  name.     Sure,  ma'am,  that  I 

have.     I'm  her  cousin.     Won't  you  set  down, 

ma'am? 
DIANTHA  (sits  at  the  table.   Dan  sits  at  the  other  side) 

Very  well.    Let  me  tell  you  why  I  want  you  to 

help  me.     In  addition  to  being  Mr.  Quilter's 

wife,  Mr.  O'Donahue,  I'm  an  interior  decorator. 

In  fact,  /  originated  the  Home  Beautiful. 
DAN 

Beggin'  yer  pardon,  ma'am,  but  what  the  divil 

is  that  ? 

DIANTHA 

Haven't  you  heard  of  the  Home  Beautiful? 

DAN 

No;  nor  seen  one,  neither. 

DIANTHA  (reciting  her  favorite  formula) 

Why,  the  Home  Beautiful  is  a  home,  beauti 
fully  decorated,  harmonized  to  the  personality 
of  its  occupants.  I  believe,  Mr.  O'Donahue, 
that  a  refined,  tastefully  decorated  home  shows 
at  once  that  the  people  living  in  it  possess  dis 
tinction  and  culture.  Don't  you  agree  with  me? 
9  129 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

DAN 

Sure,  ma'am.     But  I  bet  them  things  cost  like 
the  dickens. 
DIANTHA  (rises) 

Cost  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  Mr.  O'Donahue. 
This  is  the  kind  of  a  room  my  husband  likes. 
Look  at  the  hideous  green  flower-pot.  Look 
at  his  slippers  there,  his  pipe  on  the  table, 
his  dressing-gown  on  the  floor,  and  cigarette 
ashes  strewn  everywhere.  What  kind  of  a  Home 
Beautiful  could  /  have  if  my  husband  lived  in 
it  ?  I  appeal  to  you,  Mr.  O'Donahue.  (She  sits.) 

DAN 

Sure,  a  man's  got  to  have  his  little  comforts, 
ma'am. 

DIANTHA 

His  comforts  are  my  discomforts.  But  he  and 
I  have  been  getting  along  splendidly  since  he's 
been  living  here.  The  arrangement  is  perfect. 
I'm  known  as  Mrs.  Quilter,  the  wife  of  the  cele 
brated  novelist,  and  it  helps  me  in  a  professional 
way.  In  return,  whenever  Clifford  writes  a 
novel,  I  decorate  the  different  rooms  he  de 
scribes,  so  that  his  readers  haven't  the  faintest 
idea  he  has  such  abominably  bad  taste. 
DAN 

But  wouldn't  it  be  better,  ma'am,  if  you  and 
him  was  livin'  together,  like  a  nice,  respectable 
married  couple  ? 

DIANTHA 

Clifford  is  right.  You  are  interfering. 
(Severely.)  You'd  better  think  twice  before 
you  come  between  husband  and  wife,  Mr. 
O'Donahue. 

130 


PIE 

DAN  (rises) 

He  ain't  going  to  live  here,  that's  all! 
DIANTHA  (rises) 

You're  simply  jealous.    You're  just  interfering 

because  you  like  the  food  here. 
DAN 

Who  told  you  that? 

DIANTHA 

Clifford.    And  I  believe  him.    He  says  you  al 
ways  call  at  meal  times. 

DAN 

It's   a  lie,  ma'am.     It's   an  insult  to  me  uni 
form. 

(Enter  Annie  ^   dressed  in   a   tight-fitting  white 
gown;  her  face  is  very  red.) 

DIANTHA  (astonished) 
Why!    Annie  Mulligan! 

ANNIE 

Lor'!    The  missus! 

DIANTHA  (repeating  with  astonished  deliberation) 
Annie  Mulligan ! 

ANNIE 

Yes,  ma'am. 

DIANTHA 

I  thought  you  went  with  a  family  in  Philadelphia. 

ANNIE  (dramatically) 

Didn't  'he  tell  you — I  was — she? 
DIANTHA  (a  light  dawning  on  her) 

Not  a  word.    The  wretch! 

ANNIE 

Maybe  he  was  afraid,  ma'am. 

DIANTHA 

I'll  never  forgive  him,  never! 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

ANNIE 

Oh,  ma'am! 

DIANTHA 

You  were  the  best  cook  I  ever  had.  I  wouldn't 
have  lost  you  for  anything. 

ANNIE  (taking  Clifford's  part) 

Sure,  it  wasn't  his  fault,  ma'am,  indeed  it 
wasn't.  I  never  would  have  left  you,  if  you 
hadn't  insisted  on  me  doin'  the  washin'  and 
ironin',  as  well  as  the  cookin'  and  general  house 
work. 

DIANTHA  (sharply) 

You  made  an  absurd  fuss  about  the  washing 
and  ironing.  There  was  hardly  a  half-day's 
work  a  week. 

ANNIE  (her  temper  rising) 

I  know  I'm  a  bad  woman,  Mrs.  Quilter,  but 
I  will  not  do  washin'  and  ironin'  under  sixty- 
five  a  month,  not  for  nobody. 

DIANTHA 

This  is  all  too  trifling  to  quarrel  about.  Tell 
me,  Annie,  how  did  this  affair  start  with  my 
husband? 

ANNIE 

Why,  ma'am,  he  was  that  uncomfortable  at 
home,  upsettin'  the  beautiful  furniture  in  all 
them  fine  rooms,  so  when  you  was  away  lec- 
turin'  on  the  Home  Beautiful,  he  used  to  stay 
out  in  the  kitchen  so  as  not  to  disturb  anything, 
and  there  he'd  be,  handin'  me  the  saucepans, 
and  helpin'  me  to  wash  up.  It  was  that  ro 
mantic,  ma'am,  was  it  any  wonder  I  fell  in  love 
with  him? 

132 


PIE 

DIANTHA 

And  then? 

ANNIE 

After  I  left,  ma'am,  I  come  into  a  little  money, 
an'  started  housekeepin'  on  me  own  account, 
an'  he  begged  me  to  take  him  in  as  a  lodger, 
an'  you  know  how  he  talks,  ma'am,  just  like 
a  book,  an'  I — I — I — (Annie  sobs.) 

DIANTHA 

Well,  how  do  you  feel  about  it? 

ANNIE  (proudly) 

I've  been  a  regular  vampire,  ma'am.  But 
I've  done  right  in  the  end.  I've  sent  him  back 
to  you,  ma'am,  and  he  is  in  better  condition 
now  than  he  ever  was. 

DAN 

You've  done  right,  Annie. 

DIANTHA 

But  I  don't  want  him  back. 

ANNIE 

Don't  want  him? 
DIANTHA  (shuddering) 

Before  I  say  another  word,  you  must  remove 
that  terrible  green  flower-pot.  It's  been  making 
me  nervous  ever  since  I  came  into  the  room. 
(To  Dan.)  Move  it  over  here.  (Dan  does  so 
with  obvious  surprise?)  No.  Over  there.  (Dan 
goes  back?)  It  isn't  right  yet.  Never  mind.  I'll 
cover  it.  (She  covers  it  with  her  scarf.  She  speaks 
to  Dan  in  a  businesslike  way.)  Now,  give  me 
a  hand  with  this.  (She  begins  moving  the  tabley 
Dan  and  Annie  assisting  her.)  Move  it  more  this 
way.  No;  more  that  way.  Stop,  stop!  There, 
that  makes  the  place  a  little  more  attractive. 

133 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

(She  then  rearranges  chairs  in  other  parts  of  the 
room.)  That's  better.  I  simply  can't  sit  com 
fortably  in  a  room  that  doesn't  harmonize. 
(To  Annie.)  Now,  Annie,  I  want  to  talk  this 
over  with  you  alone.  (She  looks  meaningly 
at  Dan.) 

ANNIE 

You'd  better  be  going  about  your  business, 
Dan.  (Dan  does  not  stir.)  For  all  you  know 
there  might  be  a  murder  on  this  block  this 
very  minute. 

DAN  (moving  towards  the  door) 

I  guess  I  ain't  wanted  here,  but  I  warn  you, 
Annie,  if  you  don't  defend  the  honor  of  the 
Mulligans,  I  will. 

ANNIE 

Honor  o*  the  Mulligans!  Sure,  you'll  have 
enough  to  do  to  look  after  your  own  honor.  Go 
'long  wid  ye  and  catch  the  murderer.  (She 
pushes  Dan  to  the  doory  center.) 

DAN 

There  ain't  no  murderer.  What  are  you  talkin' 
about!  (He goes  out.) 

DIANTHA 

Annie,  I  can't  understand  your  deserting  my 
husband  for  that  stupid  creature! 
ANNIE 

I'm  not  desertin'  him,  ma'am.  I'm  givin'  him 
back  to  you. 

DIANTHA 

Let's  sit  down  and  talk  this  over.  (Annie  sits.) 
Before  we  start,  Annie,  do  you  happen  to  have 
any  bicarbonate  of  soda? 

134 


PIE 

ANNIE 

Not  a  bit,  ma'am. 

DIANTHA 

Just  my  luck.  Never  mind.  Cigarette?  (She 
offers  a  cigarette  to  Annie ,  who  refuses.  Diantha 
lights  her  own  cigarette,  throws  the  match  on  the 
floor y  picks  it  up,  looks  for  an  ash  tray,  and  hands 
the  match  to  Annie.  Annie  throws  it  back  on  the 
floor -.)  We  both  love  Clifford,  don't  we?  Let's 
forget  about  ourselves  and  do  what  is  best  for 
him.  You  know  very  well  you  don't  want  to  send 
Clifford  home.  You're  only  doing  it  because 
some  one  influenced  you  to  do  it.  Don't  you 
know,  Annie,  if  you  do  something  against  your 
own  better  judgment,  then  it  isn't  right,  and 
when  it  isn't  right,  it's  wrong,  and  when  it's 
wrong,  it's  immoral? 
ANNIE 
Is  it? 

DIANTHA 

Of  course.  And  if  you  send  Clifford  away, 
against  your  own  sense  of  what's  right,  you'll 
be  an  immoral  woman!  Yes,  Annie,  an  im 
moral  woman! 

ANNIE 

Sure,  I'm  immoral  if  he  stays,  an'  immoral  if 
he  goes.  What'll  I  do? 

DIANTHA 

Just  let  things  be  as  they  were,  Annie.    Be  un 
selfish!     Don't  gratify  your  desire  to  be  con 
ventional. 
ANNIE    (suspiciously) 

But  why  don't  you  want  him,  ma'am? 
J35 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

DIANTHA 

Because  he  really  loves  you,  Annie,  and  you 
love  him.  Your  love  has  made  him  happy. 
I  was  never  able  to  do  that. 

ANNIE 

An'  why  not,  ma'am? 

DIANTHA  (abstractedly) 

Well,  you  see,  he  married  me  on  an  intellectual 
basis,  Annie.  He  said  he  liked  my  mind.  But 
when  two  people  marry  that  way,  Annie,  it 
never  lasts,  because  as  soon  as  a  woman  dis 
agrees  with  a  man,  he  begins  to  dislike  her 
mind.  Now  it's  entirely  different  with  you, 
Annie.  No  matter  whether  or  not  Clifford 
likes  your  mind,  he'll  always  like  your  cooking. 
Your  love  will  last. 

ANNIE  (brightening) 
Will  it,  ma'am? 

DIANTHA 

It  will,  indeed.     I'm  fond  of  him,  Annie,  but 
I'm  a  modern  woman.  I'll  make  the  sacrifice. 
I'll  give  him  back  to  you,  if  you'll  take  him.    Do 
it  for  his  happiness,  as  well  as  for  mine. 
ANNIE 

Your  happiness? 

DIANTHA 

Clifford's  been  so  good-natured  to  me  since  his 
digestion  is  cured.    He  used  to  be  a  perfect  bear, 
so  I'm  grateful,  too. 
ANNIE  (graciously) 

Oh,  don't  mention  it,  Mrs.  Quilter. 

DIANTHA 

Don't  call  me  Mrs.  Quilter.    Call  me  Diantha, 

136 


PIE 

Annie.  We  have  so  much  in  common,  haven't 
we? 

ANNIE  (dubiously) 
Yes. 

DIANTHA 

Come,  Annie,  dear,  you  won't  sacrifice  the  hap 
piness  of  all  of  us,  will  you  ? 

ANNIE   (sobs) 

I'm  just  a  weak,  weak  woman! 

DIANTHA 

You'll  take  him  back? 
ANNIE  (tearfully) 
I  will. 

DIANTHA 

I  left  him  on  the  street.    I'll  call  him. 

(Diantha  goes  out.  The  window,  right,  opens  from 
without  and  Clifford  tumbles  in.  Annie,  who  is 
washing  the  tears  from  her  face  with  drinking 
water  from  a  glass  pitcher  on  the  table,  is  startled?) 

ANNIE 

Lor',  what  a  fright  you  gave  me! 

CLIFFORD  (excited) 

Your  cousin,  Dan  O'Donahue,  has  been  stand 
ing  at  the  street  door  with  his  night-stick  in  his 
hand,  glaring  at  me  as  though  he'd  like  to  kill 
me. 

ANNIE 

He  wouldn't  let  you  in? 

CLIFFORD 

No.    But  I  fooled  him.    When  he  was  looking 
the  other  way,  I  climbed  up  the  rain  spout. 
Annie,  dear,  will  you  take  me  back? 
137 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

ANNIE  (answering  everything) 

Indeed   I   will!     My  darlin'!     (They  embrace. 

Dans  head  appears  at  the  window} 
CLIFFORD 

I'll   never,   never   leave   you,   Annie.      Never, 

never,  never! 
DAN  (entering  through  the  window  and  pulling  them 

apart} 

Oh!      Won't    you!      Consider    yourself   under 

arrest. 
CLIFFORD 

Consider  yourself  on  the  street  minding  your 

own   business. 

DAN 

The  impidence! 
CLIFFORD  (angrily) 

You  came  in  through  the  window.     You'll  find 

it  more  convenient  to  leave  through  the  door. 

(He  pushes  Dan  towards  the  door.) 
DAN  (eagerly) 

Is  it  a  fight  yer  wan  tin'? 
ANNIE  (separating  them) 

Ah!    Don't  be  gettin'  mad,  Dan.    He's  comin' 

back  to  me  with  his  wife's  consent,  so  there's 

nothin'  wrong  about  it  any  more. 
DAN  (suspiciously) 

Isn't  there?    Why  not? 

ANNIE 

Ye  wouldn't  understand  if  I  explained  it  to 
you,  Dan.  I'm  not  sure  I  quite  understand  it 
myself. 

CLIFFORD 

It's  all  right,  Mr.  O' Donahue,  I  assure  you. 

138 


PIE 

ANNIE  (winningly,  taking  Dan's  night-stick  away 

from  him) 

See  here,  Dan,  I've  got  another  apple  pie  in  the 

kitchen.    Will  ye  both  come  in  and  have  some? 

(She  places  her  arms  on  each  of  them.)      What 

d'ye  say,  Clifford? 
CLIFFORD  (with  glee) 

Will  I?    (To  Dan.)    There's  one  thing  we  both 

agree  on,  Mr.  O'Donahue,  and  that's  Annie's 

apple  pie,  eh? 
DAN  (grinning) 

I  guess  so. 

ANNIE 

An'  there'll  always  be  enough  for  the  both  of 
you. 

DAN 

Let's  shake  hands,  Mr.  Quilter.    And  now  for 
the  pie! 

(They  shake  hands  and  go  into  the  kitchen.    Enter 
Diantha,  door,  center.) 

DIANTHA  (excited) 

Clifford   has   completely   disappeared,    and   so 

has  your  cousin.     Perhaps  they're  righting! 
ANNIE  (beaming) 

Sure,   they're  not  fighting.     They're  eatin' — 

in  the  kitchen. 
DIANTHA 

Are  they?    What  are  they  eating? 
ANNIE 

Pie!    Apple  pie! 
DIANTHA  (regretfully) 

Oh!    Some  of  your  delicious  apple  pie! 
139 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

ANNIE 

It  won't  hurt  you,  dearie,  it'll  melt  in  your 
mouth  like  butter! 

DIANTHA 

Fll  come  in  a  moment.  Do  you  mind  if  I  use 
your  phone? 

ANNIE  (points  to  the  phone) 
Sure,  there  it  is. 

(Annie ,  highly  delighted,  goes  into  the  kitchen.) 

DIANTHA  (into  the  phone) 

Farragut  6500.  I  want  to  speak  to  Mr.  Aubrey 
Hastings'  apartment.  (Pause.)  Is  that  you, 
Aubrey?  (Pause.)  Yes,  I  fixed  it.  (Pause.) 
There's  absolutely  nothing  to  be  alarmed  about. 

CURTAIN 


140 


LICENSED 

A   TRAGI-COMEDY   IN    ONE    ACT 


LICENSED    was   first    produced  by    the   Washington 

Square  Players  in  February,  1915,  at  the  Bandbox 

Theatre,  New  York,  with  the  following  cast: 

MRS.  RANSOME  JOSEPHINE  A.  MEYER 

JANE  RANSOME,  her  daughter  IDA  RAUH 

REV.  MR.  TANNER,  a  clergyman  CARL  SOANES 

Produced  under  the  direction  of  MR.  PHILIP  MOELLER 

LICENSED  was  the  opening  play  of  the  first  bill  of  the 
Washington  Square  Players. 


COPYRIGHT, -19 15 
BY  LAWRENCE  LANGNER 

All  Rights  Reserved 


LICENSED 

SCENE 

The  Parlor  of  the  Ransomes*  house,  in  a  cheap 
district  of  Brooklyn.  There  is  a  -profusion  of  pic 
tures y  ornaments  y  and  miscellaneous  furniture. 
A  gilded  radiator  stands  in  front  of  the  fireplace. 
Tabhy  center  y  on  which  are  some  boxes  and  silver- 
plated  articles  arranged  for  display.  Over  the 
door  hangs  a  horseshoe.  White  flowers  and  fes 
toons  indicate  that  the  room  has  been  prepared  for 
a  wedding.  To  the  left  is  a  sofa,  upon  which  lies 
the  body  of  a  dead  man,  his  face  covered  with  a 
handkerchief.  There  is  a  small  packing-case  at 
his  sidey  upon  which  stand  two  lighted  candlesy 
a  medicine  bottle^  and  a  tumbler.  The  blinds 
are  drawn. 

Janet  y  dressed  in  a  white  y  semi-bridal  costume  y 
is  on  her  knees  at  the  side  of  the  couchy  quietly 
weeping.  After  a  few  moments  the  door  opens  y 
admitting  a  pale  flood  of  sunshine.  A  murmur 
of  conversation  in  the  passage  without  is  heard. 
Mrs.  Ransome  enters.  She  is  an  intelligenty 
comfortable-lookingy  middle-aged  woman.  She 
wears  an  elaborate  dress  of  light  gray  y  of  a  fashion 
of  some  years  previouSy  evidently  kept  for  special 
occasions.  She  is  somewhat  hysterical  in  manner 
and  punctuates  her  conversation  with  sniffles. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

My  dear  child,  now  do  stop  cryin'.     Won't 
H3 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

you  stop  cryin'?    Yer  Aunt  Maud's  just  come, 
and  wants  to  know  if  she  can  see  you. 
JANET  (through  her  sobs) 

I  don't  want  to  see  her.  I  don't  want  to  see 
nobody. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

But  your  aunt,  my  dear — 
JANET  (interrupting) 

No,  Mother,  not  nobody. 

(Mrs.  Ransome  goes  to  the  door  and  holds  a  whis 
pered  conversation  with  somebody  outside.  She 
then  returns ',  closing  the  door  behind  her,  and  sits 
on  the  chair  close  to  Janet.) 

MRS.    RANSOME 

She's  goin'  to  wait  for  yer  father.  He's  almost 
crazy  with  worry.  All  I  can  say  is — thank  God 
it  was  to  have  bin  a  private  wedding.  If  we'd 
had  a  lot  of  people  here,  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  have  done.  Now,  quit  yer  cryin',  Janet, 
I'm  sure  we're  doin'  all  we  can  for  you,  dear. 
(Janet  continues  to  weep  softly.)  Come,  dear, 
try  and  bear  up.  Try  and  stop  cryin'.  Yer 
eyes  are  all  red,  dear,  and  the  minister'll  be 
here  in  a  minute. 
JANET  (quieter) 

I  don't  want  to  see  him,  Mother.  Can't  you 
see  I  don't  want  to  see  nobody? 

MRS.  RANSOME 

I  know,  my  dear.  We  tried  to  stop  him  comin', 
but  he  says  to  yer  father,  he  says,  "If  I  can't 
come  to  her  weddin',  it's  my  duty  to  try  to 
comfort  yer  daughter";  and  that  certainly 
is  a  fine  thing  for  him  to  do,  for  a  man  in  his 
144 


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position,  too.  An*  yer  father — he  feels  it  as 
much  as  you  do,  what  with  the  trouble  he's 
bin  to,  buyin'  all  that  furniture  for  you  an' 
him,  and  one  thing  and  another.  He  says  Bob 
must  have  had  a  weak  heart,  an'  it's  some  con 
solation  he  was  took  before  the  weddin'  an' 
not  after,  when  you  might  have  had  a  lot  of 
children  to  look  after.  An'  he's  right,  too. 

JANET 

Oh,  Bob!  Bob! 

MRS.  RANSOME 

Now,  now!    My  poor  girl.    It  makes  my  heart 

bleed  to  hear  you. 
JANET 

Oh,  Bob!    I  want  you  so.    Won't  you  wake  up, 

Bob? 
MRS.  RANSOME  (putting  her  arms  around  Janet  and 

bursting  into  sobs) 

There — you're  cryin'  yer  eyes  out.      There — 

there — you've   still  got  yer  old  mother — there 

— there,  just  like  when  you  was  a  baby — there — 
JANET  (in  a  quiet,  serious  voice) 

Mother — I  want  to  tell  you  something. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

Well,  tell  me,  dear,  what  is  it? 

JANET 

You  don't  know  why  me  and  Bob  was  goin* 
to  get  married. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

Why  you  and  Bob  was  goin'  to  get  married? 
JANET 

Didn't  you  never  guess  why  we  was  goin'  to 
get  married — sort  of  all  oj  a  sudden? 
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MRS.  RANSOME 

All  of  a  sudden?  Why,  I  never  thought  of  it. 
(Alarmed?)  There  wasn't  nothin'  wrong  be- 
tween  you  and  him,  was  there?  (Janet  weeps 
afresh.}  Answer  me.  There  wasn't  nothin' 
wrong  between  you  and  him,  was  there? 
JANET 

Nothin'   wrong. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

What  do  you  mean,  then? 

JANET 

We  was  goin*  to  get  married — because  we  had  to. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

You  mean — you  mean  you're  goin'  to  have  a 
baby? 

JANET 

Yes. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

Are  you  sure?    D'ye  know  how  to  tell? 

JANET 

Yes. 

MRS.    RANSOME 

Oh,  Lor'!     Goodness  gracious!     How  could  it 
have  happened? 
JANET 

I'm  glad  it  happened — now. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

D'ye  understand  what  this  means?    What  are 
we  goin'  to  do  about  it? 
JANET  (through  her  tears) 

I  can't  help  it.  I'm  glad  it  happened.  An'  if 
I  lived  all  over  again,  I'd  want  it  to  happen 
again. 

146 


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MRS.    RANSOME 

You'd  want  it  to  happen?    Don't  you  see  what 
this  means?    Don't  you  see  that  if  this  gets  out, 
you'll  be  disgraced  till  your  dying  day? 
JANET 
I'm  glad. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

Don't  keep  on  savin*  you're  glad.  Glad,  in 
deed!  Have  you  thought  of  the  shame  an'  dis 
grace  this'll  bring  on  me  an'  yer  father?  An* 
after  we've  saved  an'  scraped  these  long  years 
to  bring  you  up  respectable,  an'  give  you  a  good 
home.  You're  glad,  are  you?  You  certainly 
got  a  lot  to  be  glad  about. 
JANET 

Can't  you  understand,  Mother?  We  wasn't 
thinking  of  you  when  it  happened — now  it's 
all  I  have. 

MRS.    RANSOME 

Of  course  you  wasn't  thinkin'  of  us.  Only  of 
yerselves.  But  me  and  your  father  is  the  ones 
that's  got  to  stand  for  all  the  talk  there'll  be 
about  it.  Think  what  the  family '11  say.  Think 
what  the  neighbors'll  say.  I  don't  know  what 
we  done  to  have  such  a  thing  happen  to  us. 
(Mrs.  Ransome  breaks  into  a  spell  of  exagger 
ated  weeping^  which  ceases  as  the  doorbell  rings.) 
There!  That's  the  minister.  God  only  knows 
what  I'd  better  say  to  him.  (Mrs.  Ransome 
hurriedly  attempts  to  tidy  the  room,  knocking  over 
a  chair  in  her  haste>  pulls  up  the  blinds  half 
way  and  returns  to  her  chair.  There  is  a  knock 
at  the  door.  Mrs.  Ransome  breaks  into  a  pro 
longed  howl.)  Come  in. 

H7 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

(Enter  Rev.  Mr.  Tanner.  He  is  a  clergyman 
with  a  rich,  middle-class  congregation  and  a  few 
poorer  members,  amongst  whom  he  numbers  the 
Ransomes.  His  general  attitude  is  kind  but  some 
what  patronizing;  he  displays  none  of  the  effusive 
desire  to  please  which  is  his  correct  demeanor 
towards  his  richer  parishioners.  The  elder  Ran 
somes  regard  him  as  their  spiritual  leader,  and 
worship  him,  along  with  God,  at  a  respectful 
distanced) 

TANNER  (speaks  in  a  hushed  voice,  glancing  towards 
the  kneeling  figure  of  Janet) 
Bear  up,  Mrs.  Ransome.      Bear  up,  I  beg  of 
you!     (Mrs.  Ransome  howls  more  vigorously.) 
This  is  very  distressing,  Mrs.  Ransome. 

MRS.  RANSOME  (between  her  sobs) 

It  certainly  is  kind  of  you  to  come,  Mr.  Tanner, 
I'm  sure.  We  didn't  expect  to  see  you  when 
my  husband  phoned  you. 

TANNER 

Where  is  your  husband  now? 

MRS.  RANSOME 

He's  gone  to  send  some  telegrams  to  Bob's 
family,  sir —  his  family.  We'd  planned  to  have 
a  quiet  wedding,  sir,  with  only  me  and  her 
father  and  aunt,  and  then  we  was  goin'  to  have 
the  rest  of  his  family  in  this  afternoon. 

TANNER 

It's  a  very  sad  thing,  Mrs.  Ransome. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

It's  fairly  dazed  us,  Mr.  Tanner.  Comin' 
on  top  of  all  the  preparation  we've  bin  makin' 
for  the  past  two  weeks,  too.  An'  her  father 

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spent  a  pile  o'  money  on  their  new  furniture  an* 
things. 

TANNER  (speaking  in  an  undertone) 
Was  he  insured? 

MRS.     RANSOME 

No,  sir,  not  a  penny.  That's  why  it  comes  so 
hard  on  us  just  now,  havin'  the  expense  of  a 
funeral  on  top  of  what  weVe  just  spent  for 
the  weddin'. 

TANNER 

Well,  Mrs.  Ransome,  I'll  try  to  help  you  in  any 
way  I  can. 

MRS.     RANSOME 

Thank  you,  Mr.  Tanner.  It  certainly  is  fine 
of  you  to  say  so.  Everybody's  bin  good  to  us, 
sir.  She  had  all  them  presents  given  to  her. 

TANNER 

Did  he  have  any  relatives  here? 

MRS.  RANSOME 

Not  a  soul,  poor  fellow.  He  comes  from  up 
state.  That's  why  my  husband's  gone  to  send 
a  telegram  askin'  his  father  to  come  to  the 
funeral. 

TANNER 

How  long  will  your  husband  be?  (He  glances 
at  his  watch.) 

MRS.    RANSOME 

I  don't  think  he'll  be  more  than  half  an  hour. 
He'd  like  to  see  you,  if  you  could  wait  that  long, 
I  know. 

TANNER 

Very  well.     I  have  an  engagement  later,  but 
I  can  let  that  go  if  necessary. 
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FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

(Tanner  and  Mrs.  Ransome  sit  down  in  front 
of  the  table.} 

MRS.   RANSOME 

It  certainly  is  a  great  comfort  havin'  you  here, 
Mr.  Tanner.  I  feel  so  upset  I  don't  know  what 
to  say. 

TANNER 

Bear  up,  Mrs.  Ransome.  You  are  not  the 
greatest  sufferer.  Let  me  say  a  few  words 
to  your  daughter.  (He  rises,  goes  to  Janet,  and 
places  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  but  she  takes  no 
notice  of  him}  My  poor  child,  you  must  try 
to  bear  up,  too. 

MRS.    RANSOME 

She  takes  it  so  bad,  Mr.  Tanner,  that  the  Lord 
should  have  took  him  on  their  weddin'  mornin'. 
TANNER  (returning  to  his  chair) 

We  must  not  question,  Mrs.  Ransome,  we  must 
not  question.  The  Almighty  has  thought  fit 
to  gather  him  back  into  the  fold,  and  we  must 
submit  to  his  will.  In  such  moments  as  these  we 
feel  helpless.  We  feel  the  need  of  a  Higher 
Being,  to  cling  to — to  find  consolation.  Time 
is  the  great  healer. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

But  to  expect  a  weddin'  (sobs)  and  find  it's  a 
funeral — it's  awful!  (Sobs}  And  besides, — Mr. 
Tanner,  you've  always  bin  good  to  us.  We're 
in  other  trouble,  too.  Worse — worse  even  than 
this. 


TANNER 

In  other  trouble? 


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MRS.  RANSOME 

I  just  can't  bear  to  think  about  it. 

TANNER 

Your  husband's  business? 

MRS.  RANSOME 

No,  sir.  It's — I  don't  know  how  to  say  it. 
It's  her  and  him. 

TANNER 

Her  and  him? 

MRS.    RANSOME 

I'm  almost  ashamed  to  tell  you.    She's  goin'  to 
have  a  baby. 
TANNER  (astounded) 

She's  going  to  be  a  mother? 

MRS.  RANSOME 

Yes.  (Sobs.)  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  hard 
this  is  on  us,  Mr.  Tanner.  We've  always  bin 
respectable  people,  sir,  as  you  well  know.  We've 
bin  livin'  right  here  on  this  block  these  last  ten 
years,  an'  everybody  knows  us  in  the  neighbor 
hood.  Her  father  don't  know  about  it  yet. 
What  he'll  say  God  only  knows. 

TANNER 

I'm  terribly  sorry  to  hear  this,  Mrs.  Ransome. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

I  can  forgive  her,  sir,  but  not  him.  They  say 
we  shouldn't  speak  ill  of  the  dead — but  I  always 
was  opposed  to  her  marryin'  him.  I  wanted  her 
to  marry  a  steady  young  fellow  of  her  own  re 
ligion,  but  I  might  as  well  have  talked  to  the 
wall,  for  all  the  notice  she  took  of  me. 

TANNER 

It's  not  for  us  to  judge,  Mrs.  Ransome.  How 
long  were  they  engaged? 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

MRS.  RANSOME 

Well,  sir,  I  suppose  on  an'  off  it's  bin  about 
three  years.  He  never  could  hold  a  job  long, 
an*  me  and  her  father  said  he  couldn't  marry 
her — not  with  our  consent — until  he  was  earnin' 
at  least  forty  dollars  a  week — an'  that  was  only 
right,  considerin'  he'd  have  to  support  her. 

TANNER 

Yes,  you  were  quite  right  in  that.  Dear,  dear. 
I'm  sorry  to  see  a  thing  of  this  sort  happen — 
and  right  in  my  own  congregation.  I've  ex 
pressed  my  views  from  the  pulpit  from  time  to 
time  very  strongly  upon  the  subject,  but  now 
adays  our  words  fall  so  often  upon  deaf  ears. 
Young  people  discredit  the  Church  and  her 
teachings — it's  only  in  the  great  crises  of  life 
that  they  realize  it  is  we  who  are  right. 

MRS.   RANSOME 

You  got  to  remember  they  was  going  to  get 
married,  sir.  If  you'd  bin  here  only  an  hour 
earlier,  Mr.  Tanner,  there  wouldn't  have  bin 
no  disgrace.  (She  points  to  the  official-looking 
paper  lying  on  the  table.)  Why,  sir — there's  the 
marriage  certificate  —  Mr.  Smith  brought  it 
down  from  church  this  morning — all  waiting 
for  you  to  fill  it  in.  If  you'd  only  come  earlier, 
sir,  they'd  have  bin  properly  married,  and  there 
wouldn't  have  bin  a  word  said. 

TANNER 

That's  true.  They  might  have  avoided  the 
immediate  disgrace.  But  after  all,  that  isn't 
the  way  to  get  married.  To  my  way  of  thinking, 
it  isn't  so  much  a  matter  of  disgrace.  That 
means  nothing.  It's  the  principle  of  the  thing. 
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MRS.  RANSOME  (eagerly) 

Oh,  Mr.  Tanner,  do  you  mean  it?  Do  you 
mean  that  the  disgrace  of  it  means  nothin'? 

TANNER 

Well — not  exactly  nothing — but  nothing  to 
the  principle  of  the  thing. 

MRS.    RANSOME 

An'  would  you  save  her  from  the  disgrace  of  it, 
if  you  could,  Mr.  Tanner,  if  it  don't  mean 
nothin'? 

TANNER 

You  know  I'm  your  friend,  Mrs.  Ransome. 
I'll  do  anything  I  can  to  help  you,  within 
reason. 

MRS.  RANSOME  (eagerly  pleading} 

Mr.  Tanner,  if  she  has  a  baby,  respectable 
people  won't  look  at  us  no  more.  We'll  have 
to  move  away  from  here.  It'll  break  her  father's 
heart,  as  sure  as  can  be.  But  if  you  could  fill 
in  the  marriage  certificate  as  though  they'd 
bin  married,  Mr.  Tanner,  why,  nobody's  to 
know  that  it  isn't  all  respectable  and  proper. 
They  had  their  license,  and  ring,  and  every 
thing  else,  sir,  as  you  know. 

TANNER  (astounded) 

Fill  in  the  marriage  certificate? 

MRS.  RANSOME 

They'd  have  bin  married  regular  if  you'd  only 
come  an  hour  earlier,  Mr.  Tanner.  Couldn't 
you  fill  it  in  that  they  was  married  before  he 
died,  sir? 

TANNER 

But  that  would  be  forgery. 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

MRS.  RANSOME 

It  would  be  a  good  action,  Mr.  Tanner — indeed 
it  would.  Her  father  an'  me  haven't  done 
nothin'  to  deserve  it,  but  we'll  be  blamed  for 
it  just  the  same.  Look  at  all  the  years  we've 
bin  goin'  to  your  church,  and  never  asked  you 
a  favor  before,  Mr.  Tanner. 
TANNER  (with  feeling  and  evident  sincerity) 

My  good  woman,  I  don't  know  what  to  say. 
I'd  like  to  help  you,  but  how  can  I  ?  In  the  first 
place,  don't  you  see  that  you're  asking  me  to 
act  against  my  own  principles?  I've  been 
preaching  sermons  for  years,  and  making  a 
public  stand,  too,  against  hasty  marriages  that 
break  up  homes  and  lead  to  the  divorce  court — 
or  worse.  The  church  is  trying  to  make  mar 
riage  a  thing  sacred  and  apart,  instead  of  the 
mockery  it  is  in  this  country  today.  I  sym 
pathize  with  you  deeply.  I  know  how  hard  it 
is  for  you  all.  But  for  all  I  know,  you  may  be 
asking  me  to  help  you  thwart  the  will  of  God. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

The  will  of  God? 

TANNER 

Mind  you,  I  don't  say  that  it  is,  Mrs.  Ransome, 
but  it  may  very  well  be  the  Hand  of  the  Al 
mighty.  Your  daughter  and  her  young  man, 
as  she  has  confessed  herself,  have  tried  to  use 
the  marriage  ceremony — a  holy  ceremony,  mind 
you — to  cover  up  what  they've  done. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

Oh,  don't  talk  like  that  before  her,  Mr.  Tanner. 

TANNER 

I  don't   mean  to  hurt   her   feelings,  or  yours 
'54 


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either,  but  don't  you  see  what  a  predicament 
you  place  me  in.  It  wouldn't  be  right. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

But  they  was  goin'  to  get  married,  sir.  You 
got  to  take  that  into  consideration.  My  girl 
ain't  naturally  bad.  It  isn't  as  though  she'd 
pick  up  any  feller  that  happened  to  come  along. 
Hundreds  and  thousands  do  it,  sir,  indeed  they 
do,  and  most  of  them  much  worse  than  she  and 
him,  poor  fellow. 

TANNER 

Yes,  there  you  are  right.    I  may  seem  hard  to 
you,  Mrs.  Ransome,  but  what  am  I  to  do?    I 
must  stand  by  my  own  honest  beliefs. 
MRS.  RANSOME  (pleading  hard) 

You  can't  know  what  this  means  to  us,  sir — 
or  you'd  do  it  out  of  pity  for  us,  indeed  you 
would.  Her  father'll  take  on  somethin'  dread 
ful  when  he  hears  about  it.  He'll  turn  her  out 
of  the  house,  sir,  as  sure  as  can  be.  You  know 
him,  sir.  You  know  he's  too  good  a  Christian 
to  let  her  stay  here  after  she's  disgraced  us 
all.  And  then,  what's  to  become  of  her?  She'll 
lose  her  job,  and  who'll  give  her  another — 
without  a  reference — an'  a  baby  to  support? 
That's  how  they  get  started  on  the  streets,  sir, 
(sobs)  an'  you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do. 

TANNER 

My  poor  woman,  I  wish  I  could  help  you. 
It's  very  distressing — but  we  all  have  to  do 
our  duty  as  we  see  it.  I  grieve  for  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart.  I'll  do  anything  I  can  for 
you  within  reason. 

'55 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

MRS.  RANSOME   (almost  hysterical,  dragging  Janet 
from  the  side  of  the  body) 

Janet,  Janet!  Ask  him  yourself.  Ask  him  on 
your  bended  knees.  Ask  him  to  save  us! 
(Janet  attempts  to  return  to  the  side  of  the  body.) 
Janet,  do  you  want  to  ruin  us?  Can't  you  speak 
to  him?  Can't  you  ask  him?  (Mrs.  Ransome 
breaks  into  sobs.) 

TANNER 

Let  her  be,  Mrs.  Ransome. 

MRS.    RANSOME 

Janet — what's  the  matter?  Why  are  you  so 
hard-hearted? 

JANET  (rises  and  turns  fiercely  on  Mrs.  Ransome) 
Who's  hard-hearted? 

MRS.  RANSOME 

I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you,  dearie. 

TANNER 

I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  for  you,  Janet. 

JANET 

Well,  I  tell  you  straight,  I  don't  want  none 
of  your  pity. 

MRS.    RANSOME 

Janet,  don't  speak  like  that  to  him.  You're 
excited.  (To  Tanner.)  She  don't  mean  it,  sir 
—she's  all  worked  up. 

JANET    (her   excitement   increasing,   and  speaking 
in  loud  tones) 

All  right,  Mother — I'll  tell  him  again — I  don't 
want  none  of  his  pity.  I  c'n  get  along  without 
it.  An'  if  you  and  him  think  that  writin' 
a  few  words  on  a  marriage  certificate  is  going 
to  make  any  difference,  well — you're  welcome 
to. 


LICENSED 


TANNER 

My  dear  girl.     Don't  you  understand,  if  it  was 
merely    a    question    of   writing    a    few    words, 
I'd  do  it  in  a  minute.     But  it's  the  principle 
of  the  thing. 
JANET  (bitingly) 

Huh!  Principle  of  the  thing!  I  heard  it  all. 
You  preached  against  it,  didn't  you?  It's  a 
pity  you  never  preached  a  sermon  on  how  me 
and  him  could  have  gotten  married  two  years 
ago,  'stead  of  waitin'  till  now,  when  it's  too  late. 

TANNER 

Others  have  to  wait. 

JANET 

We  did  wait.  Isn't  three  years  long  enough? 
D'ye  think  we  was  made  of  stone?  How  much 
longer  d'ye  think  we  could  wait.  We  waited 
till  we  couldn't  hold  out  no  longer.  I  only  wish 
to  God  we  hadn't  waited  at  all,  'stead  of  wastin' 
all  them  years. 

MRS.  RANSOME  (shocked) 

Janet,  you  don't  know  what  you're  savin'. 
JANET 

I  do,  an'  I  mean  it.  We  waited,  an'  waited,  an' 
waited.  Didn't  he  try  all  he  could  to  get  a 
better  job?  Twasn't  his  fault  he  couldn't.  We 
was  plannin'  to  go  West,  or  somewhere — where 
he'd  have  more  of  a  chance — we  was  savin'  up 
for  it  on  the  quiet.  An'  while  we  was  waitin', 
we  wanted  one  another — all  day  an'  all  night. 
An'  what  use  was  it?  We  held  out  till  we 
couldn't  hold  out  no  longer — an'  when  we  knew 
what  was  goin'  to  happen,  well — we  had  to  get 
married — an'  that's  all  there's  to  it. 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

TANNER  (making  a  remarkable  discovery ',  supporting 
all  his  personal  theories  on  the  subject) 
Ah!    Then  your  idea  was  to  marry  simply  be 
cause  you  were  going  to  have  a  baby! 

JANET 

Sure  it  was.  D'ye  think  we  wanted  to  marry 
an  live  here  on  the  twenty-five  a  week  he  was 
gettin'?  We'd  have  bin  starvin'  in  a  month. 
But  when  this  happened — we  had  to  get  mar 
ried — starve  or  not.  What  else  could  we  do? 

TANNER 

Well,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  It  seems  to  me 
that  you  should  have  thought  of  all  this  before. 
You  knew  what  it  would  mean  to  have  a  baby. 

JANET 

D'ye  think  I  wanted  a  baby?  I  didn't  want 
one.  I  didn't  know  how  to  stop  it.  If  you 
don't  like  it — it's  a  pity  you  don't  preach  ser 
mons  on  how  to  stop  havin'  babies  when  they're 
not  wanted.  There'd  be  some  sense  in  that. 
That'd  be  more  sense  than  talkin'  about  waitin' 
— an'  waitin' — an'  waitin'.  There's  hundreds 
of  women  around  here — starvin'  and  sufferin' — 
an'  havin'  one  baby  after  another,  an'  don't 
know  the  first  thing  about  how  to  stop  it. 
'Tisn't  my  fault  I'm  goin'  to  have  one.  I 
didn't  want  it. 

TANNER 

Miss  Ransome,  your  views  astound  me. 

JANET 

I  can't  help  it.  People  may  think  it  wrong, 
an'  all  that,  but  it  ain't  his  fault  an'  it  ain't 
mine.  Don't  you  think  we  used  to  get  sick  of 
goin'  to  movies,  an'  vaudeville  shows,  an'  all 


LICENSED 


them  other  places — time  after  time?  I  wanted 
him  to  love  me,  and  I  ain't  ashamed  of  it, 
neither. 

MRS.    RANSOME 

Janet,  how  dare  you  talk  like  that  in  front  of 
Mr.  Tanner.  (To  Tanner.}  She  don't  mean  it, 
Mr.  Tanner.  She  don't  know  what  she's  say- 
in'.  I've  always  brought  her  up  to  be  inner- 
cent  about  things.  She  must  have  got  all  this 
from  the  girls  at  the  store  where  she  works. 
She  didn't  get  it  in  her  home,  that's  sure. 

JANET 

No,  that  I  didn't.     Nor  nothin'  else,  neither. 
You  was  always  ashamed  to  tell  me  about  any 
thing,  so  I  found  out  from  the  other  girls,  like 
the  rest  of  'em  do.     I've  known  everything  for 
years  and  years — except  what'd  be  useful  to  me. 
If  I'm  goin'  to  have  a  baby  it's  your  fault, 
Mother,  as  much  as  anybody.    You  only  had  one 
yourself — but  you  never  told  me  nothin'. 
MRS.  RANSOME  (speech/ess) 
Janet! 

TANNER 

Miss  Ransome,  this  is  not  a  subject  I  ordinarily 
discuss,  but  since  you  know  what  you  do  know, 
let  me  tell  you  there  is  nothing  worse  than 
trying  to  interfere  with  the  workings  of  nature, 
or — if  I  may  say  so — of  God. 
JANET 

Well,  Bob  said  the  rich  people  do  it.  He  said 
they  must  know  how  to  do  it,  because  they 
never  have  more'n  two  or  three  children  in  a 
family;  but  you've  only  got  to  walk  on  the  next 
block — where  it's  all  tenements — to  see  ten 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

and  twelve  in  every  family,  because  the  workin' 
people  don't  know  any  better.  But  I  don't 
want  no  pity  from  anybody.  I  can  take  a  chance 
on  it.  I  got  a  pair  of  hands,  an'  I  c'n  take  care 
of  myself. 

TANNER 

Mrs.  Ransome,  it's  no  good  my  talking  to  your 
daughter  while  she's  in  this  frame  of  mind. 
She  appears  to  have  the  most  extraordinary 
views.  There'd  be  some  hope  for  her  if  she'd 
show  a  little  penitence — a  little  regret  for 
what's  been  done  and  can't  be  undone.  You've 
often  heard  me  say  in  the  pulpit  that  God  is 
always  willing  to  forgive  the  humble  and  peni 
tent. 
JANET  (with  scorn) 

"God,"  indeed.  Don't  make  me  laugh.  (She 
points  to  Bob's  body.)  Look  at  him  lying  there. 
God?  What's  God  got  to  do  with  it?  (She 
kneels  dejectedly  at  the  side  of  the  couch,,  rigid  and 
silent.  Tanner  is  obviously  touched.) 

TANNER 

Poor  girl.  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  If  only 
she  had  shown  some  signs  of  penitence — some 
remorse  for  what  has  happened — I  might  even 
have  gone  so  far  as  to  have  made  the  entry 
in  the  marriage  certificate — seeing  the  punish 
ment  she's  already  had.  (He  waits  for  some  re 
sponse  from  Janet,  which  does  not  come.)  But 
as  she  is  now,  I  don't  see  what  good  it  would 
do,  so  I  think  I'd  better  go. 
MRS.  RANSOME  (appealingly) 

Oh,  don't  go,  Mr.  Tanner.    Wait  just  a  minute 
while  I  talk  to  her,  please.     Janet,  can't  you 
1 60 


LICENSED 


say  you're  sorry  for  what  you've  done?  Can't 
you  see  that  Mr.  Tanner  only  wants  to  be  fair 
with  you?  Come,  do  it  for  our  sakes — yer 
father  and  me.  You  know  how  hard  he's 
worked,  how  religious  he  is,  an'  everything. 
You  don't  want  to  ruin  us,  do  you?  Can't  you 
see  it  isn't  only  yourself  that's  got  to  be  con 
sidered?  Think  of  what  we've  done  for  you. 
Tell  him  you're  sorry  for  it,  do! 

TANNER 

I  really  must  go. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

Just  one  minute  more.  Please  wait  one  min 
ute  more.  Janet,  what's  the  matter  with  you? 
Can't  you  see  the  disgrace  it'll  be  to  all  of  us? 
They'll  all  laugh  at  us — an'  jeer  at  us.  It'll 
follow  us  around  wherever  we  go.  You  know 
how  folks  make  fun  of  your  father — because  he 
keeps  himself  respectable — an'  saves  his  money. 
Do  you  want  them  to  laugh  at  him?  Do  you 
want  them  to  be  laughin'  at  you  and  talkin' 
about  you?  Do  you  want  them  to  be  makin' 
fun  of  your  baby — an'  callin'  it  a  bastard — 
an'  askin'  it  who  its  father  was? 
JANET  (nervously) 
They  wouldn't. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

Yes  they  would.  An'  all  the  time  he's  growin' 
up,  the  other  children  in  school'll  be  tormentin' 
him,  and  callin'  him  names.  Didn't  the  same 
thing  happen  to  Susan  Bradley 's  boy?  Didn't 
they  have  to  go  an'  live  out  in  Jersey,  coz  she 
couldn't  stand  it  no  longer? 
11  161 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

JANET  (defiantly) 

They  went  away  coz  he  was  always  gettin'  sick. 

MRS.    RANSOME 

Of  course  he  was  always  gettin*  sick — with  all 
the  devils  makin'  fun  of  him — an'  makLn'  his 
life  a  misery.  Didn't  we  used  to  see  him  goin' 
down  the  block — with  the  tears  runnin'  down  his 
cheeks — an'  all  of  'em  yellin'  names  after  him. 
Just  think  of  the  baby  you're  goin'  to  have. 
D'ye  want  that  to  happen  to  your  baby?  D'ye 
want  them  to  make  its  life  a  misery — same  as 
the  other  one? 
JANET  (lifelessly) 
They  wouldn't. 

MRS.    RANSOME 

Of  course  they  would.  They'll  tease  an'  tor 
ment  it,  just  like  the  other — an'  when  he's 
old  enough  to  understand — who'll  he  blame 
for  it?  He'll  blame  you  for  it.  (Inspired.) 
He'll  blame  Bob  for  it — he'll  hate  him  for  it. 
D'ye  want  your  boy — Bob's  boy —  to  be  hatin' 
his  own  father?  What'd  Bob  say?  What'd 
he  think  of  you  ruinin'  his  baby's  life — an'  all 
just  because  you're  obstinate  an*  won't  listen 
to  reason.  Can't  you  see  it?  Just  think — if 
you'll  only  say  you  was  in  the  wrong — an'  do 
what  Mr.  Tanner  asks  you — he'll  forgive  you 
an'  make  everything  all  right.  Oh,  Janet — 
can't  you  see  it?  Ask  him — beg  him! 
JANET 

Oh,  dear.    Well — how  c'n  Mr.  Tanner  make  it 
all  right? 

MRS.  RANSOME 

You  know  what  I  mean.    Oh,  Janet,  it  won't 
162 


LICENSED 


take  him  a  minute  to  write  it.    If  he  don't,  can't 
you  see  it'll  ruin  us  all  our  lives? 
JANET    (blankly) 

Only  a  minute  to  write  it — or  it'll  ruin  us  all 
our  lives. 

MRS.  RANSOME 

Oh,  Janet,  this  is  your  last  chance.  Tell  him 
you're  sorry.  (To  Tanner,  who  has  edged  to 
wards  the  door,  and  is  about  to  leave.)  Oh,  Mr. 
Tanner,  please  don't  go. 

TANNER 

Really,  I  must. 

MRS.    RANSOME 

Oh,  sir!  I  can  see  she's  sorry.  You  won't 
go  back  on  your  word,  sir  ? 

JANET  (feigning  remorse) 

Let  me  think  a  bit.  Mr.  Tanner,  I  guess  I'm 
in  the  wrong.  It  didn't  seem  to  me  to  be  wrong 
— that's  all  I  got  to  say.  I  hope  you'll  for 
give  me.  I'm  sorry  for  the  way  I  spoke — and 
what  I  done. 

TANNER  (returning) 

My  child,  it's  not  for  me  to  forgive  you.  Are 
you  truly  repentant — from  the  bottom  of  your 
heart? 

JANET 

Yes,  sir. 

TANNER 

I  don't  like  preaching  sermons  out  of  church, 
Janet,  but  I  hope  that  this  has  taught  you  that 
there  can  be  no  justification  for  our  moments  of 
passion  and  willfulness.  We  must  all  try  to 
humble  our  pride  and  our  spirit.  I  won't  go  back 
on  my  word,  but  if  I  give  you  this  chance  to 
163 


FIVE    ONE-ACT    COMEDIES 

start  out  afresh,  you  must  try  to  wipe  out  what 
has   happened   by  living  a  clean,  wholesome, 
useful  life.    Will  you  promise  me  that? 
JANET 

I'll   try,  sir. 

TANNER 

And  now,  Mrs.  Ransome,  I  suppose  I'll  have 
to  fill  out  the  certificate  as  though  it  had  hap 
pened  an  hour  or  so  ago.  I  know  I  may  appear 
changeable.  But  I  feel  I  am  doing  my  duty. 
This  may  save  your  daughter  from  a  life  of  deg 
radation.  I  think  the  end  justifies  the  means. 
But  first,  let  me  ask  you,  who  knows  that  the 
ceremony  wasn't  performed  before  he  died? 

MRS.    RANSOME 

Only  me — an'  her  father — an'  my  sister  out 
side. 

TANNER 

Can  she  be  relied  upon  to  hold  her  tongue? 

MRS.  RANSOME 

She  surely  can,  sir. 

TANNER 

Well,  you  understand  this  is  a  very  serious  thing 
for  me  to  do.  If  it  becomes  public,  I  shall  be 
faced  with  a  very  unpleasant  situation. 

MRS.    RANSOME 

Oh,  I  promise  you,  Mr.  Tanner,  not  a  soul  will 
know  of  it.  We'll  take  our  dyin'  oaths,  sir,  all 
of  us. 

TANNER 

All  right.  But  first  let  me  lend  Janet  this  prayer- 
book.  (Takes  a  prayer-book  out  of  his  pocket;  ad 
dressing  Janet.)  Here's  a  prayer-book,  Janet. 
I'll  go  with  your  mother  now  into  the  back 
164 


LICENSED 


parlor,  and  meanwhile  I  want  you  to  read  over 

this  prayer.    It  will  comfort  you  in  your  sorrow. 

Come,  Mrs.  Ransome,  take  the  certificate,  and 

we'll  come  back  later  and  discuss  the  funeral 

arrangements. 
MRS.  RANSOME  (takes  the  marriage  certificate} 

Oh,  Mr.  Tanner,  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you. 

Is  there  anything  I  can   do  in  return?    I'd  be 

glad  to. 
TANNER  (as  he  leaves  the  room) 

We're  trying  to  raise   funds  for  a  mission  to 

spread  Christianity  amongst  the  Chinese. 

(Tanner  and  Mrs.  Ransome  go  out.  Janet  closes 
the  door.  She  walks  towards  the  couch,  looks  at 
the  prayer-book,  then  the  couch.  She  flings  the 
prayer-book  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  smashing 
some  of  the  ornaments  on  the  mantle-shelf,  and 
throws  herself  upon  the  side  of  the  couch,  sobbing 
wildly.) 

SLOW  CURTAIN 


165 


Stewart  Kidd  Dramatic  Anthologies 

Fifty  Contemporary  One-Act  Plays 

Edited  by 
FRANK  SHAY  and  PIERRE  LOVING 

THIS  volume  contains  FIFTY  REPRESENTATIVE  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 
of  the  MODERN  THEATER,  chosen  from  the  dramatic  works  of  con 
temporary  writers  all  over  the  world  and  is  the  second  volume  in  the 
Stewart  Kidd  Dramatic  Anthologies,  the  first  being  European  Theories  of  the 
Drama,  by  Barrett  H.  Clark,  which  has  been  so  enthusiastically  received. 

The  editors  have  scrupulously  sifted  countless  plays  and  have  selected  the 
best  available  in  English.  One-half  the  plays  have  never  before  been  pub 
lished  in  book  form;  thirty-one  are  no  longer  available  in  any  other  edition. 
The  work  satisfies  a  long-felt  want  for  a  handy  collection  of  the  choicest 
plays  produced  by  the  art  theaters  all  over  the  world.  It  is  a  complete  reper 
tory  for  a  little  theater,  a  volume  for  the  study  of  the  modem  drama,  a  rep 
resentative  collection  of  the  world's  best  short  plays. 

CONTENTS 


AUSTRIA 

Schnitzler    (Arthur)— Literature 
BELGIUM 

Maeterlinck    (Maurice) — The    Intruder 
BOLIVIA 

More   (Federico) — Interlude 
DENMARK 

Wied    (Gustave) — Autumn  Firea 
FRANCS 

Ancey  (George) — M.  Lamblin 

Porto- Riche  (Georges)  —  Francoise's  Luck 
GERMANY 

Ettinger  (Karl) — Altruism 

von  Hofmannsthal  (Hugo) — Madonna  Dia- 
•  [  ~a 

Wedekind  (Frank) — The  Tenor 
GREAT    BRITAIN 

Bennett    (Arnold)— A   Good   Woman 

Calc  eron  George — The  Little  Stone  House 

Cn""a"   (Gilbert) — Mary's  Wedding 

Dowson  (Ernest) — The  Pierrot  of  the  Min 
ute. 

Ellis    (Mrs.    Havelock)— The    Subjection 
of  Keeia 

Hpnkin  (St.  John) — The  Constant  Lover 
INDIA 

Mukerji  (Dban  Gopal) — The  Judgment  of 

[adra 
IRELAND 

Gregory    (Lady)— The  Workhouse  Ward 
HOLLAND 

Speenhoff  Q.  H.)— Louise 
HUNGARY 

Biro   (Lajos)— The  Grandmother 
ITALY 

Giocoaa  (Giuseppe)— The  Rights  of  the  Soul 

Andreyev  (Leonid)— Love  of  One's  Neigh 
bor 
Tchekoff  (Anton)— The  Boor 


SPAIN 

Benevente   (Jacinto) — His  Widow's   Hus 
band 
Quinteros  (Serafina  and  Joaquin  Alverez) 

— A  Sunny  Morning 
SWEDEN 

Strindberg  (August) — The  Creditor 
UNITED  STATES 

Beach  (Lewis) — Brothers 
Cowan  (Sada) — In  the  Morgue 
Crocker  (Bosworth)— The  Baby  Carriage 
Cronyn  (George  W.) — A  Death  in  Fever 

Flat 
Da  vies  (Mary  Carolyn) — The  Slave  with 

Two  Faces 

Day  (Frederick  L.) — The  Slump 
Planner   (Hildegard) — Mansions 
Glaspell    (Susan)— Trifles 
Gerstenberg    (Alice)— The  Pot  Boiler 
Helburn  (Theresa) — Enter  the  Hero 
Hudson    (Holland)— The  Shepherd  in  the 

Distance 

Kemp    (Harry) — Boccaccio's  Untold  Tale 
Langner    (Lawrence) — Another   Way  Out 
MacMfllan    (Mary)— The  Shadowed   Star 
Millay  (Edna  St.  Vincent) — Aria  da  Capo 
Moeller    (Philip)— Helena's   Husband 
O'NeiU  (Eugene)— He 
Stevens    (Thomas   Wood) — The    Nursery 

Maid  of  Heaven 
Stevens  (Wallace;— Three  Travelers  Watch 

a  Sunrise 

Tompkins  (Frank  G.)— Sham 
Walker  (Stuart)— The  Medicine  Show 
Wellman  (Rita)— For  All  Time 
Wilde  (Perchral)— The  Finger  of  God 
YIDDISH 

Ash  (Sholom)— Night 

Pinski  (David)— Forgotten  Souls 


Large  8vo,  585  pages.     Net,  $5.00 


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STEWART    KIDD    COMPANY 


Stewart  Kidd  Dramatic  Anthologies 

CONTEMPORARY  ONE-ACT  PLAYS  OF 
AMERICAN 

Edited  by  FRANK  SHAY 

THIS  volume  represents  a  careful  and  intelligent  selection  of 
the  best  One-act  Plays  written  by  Americans  and  produced 
by  the  Little  Theatres  in  America  during  the  season  of  1921. 
They  are  representative  of  the  best  work  of  writers  in  this  field 
and  show  the  high  level  to  which  the  art  theatre  has  risen  in 
America. 

The  editor  has  brought  to  his  task  a  love  of  die  theatre  and 
a  knowledge  of  what  is  best  through  long  association  with  the 
leading  producing  groups. 

The  volume  contains  the  repertoires  of  the  leading  Little 
Theatres,  together  with  bibliographies  of  published  plays  and 
books  on  the  theatre  issued  since  January,  1910, 

Aside  from  its  individual  importance,  the  volume,  together 
with  Fifty  Contemporary  One-Act  Plays,  will  make  up  the 
most  important  collection  cf  short  plays  published. 

In  the  Book  are 

the  following  Plays  by  the  following  Authors 

Mirage George  M.  P.  Dated 

Napoleon's  Barber Arthur  Caesar 

Goat  Alley Ernest  Howard  Culbertson 

Sweet  and  Twenty Floyd  Dell 

Tickless  Time Susan  Glaspell  and  George  Cram  Cook 

The  Hero  of  Santa  Maria Kciineth  Sawyer  Goodman  and 

Ben  H^cht 

All  Gummed  Up Harry  Wagstaff  Gribble 

Thompson's  Luck Harry  Greenwood  Grover 

Fata  Dyorum Carl  W.  Guske 

Pearl  of  Da\\n Holland  Hudson 

Finders-Keepers George  Kelly 

Solomon's  Song Harry  Kemp 

Matinata Lawrence  Langner 

The  Conflict Clarice  Vallette  McCauley 

Two  Slatterns  and  a  King Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 

Thursday  Evening Christopher  Mortey 

The  Dreamy  Kid Eugene  O'Neill 

Forbidden  Fruit George  J.  Smith 

Jerebcl Dorothy  Stockbridge 

Sir  David  Wears  a  Crown Stuart  Walker 

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X  Turkey  Morocco  $10.00 

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Stewart  Kidd  Plays 

THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

Edited  by  GEORGE  CRAM  COOK  and  FRANK  SHAY 
With  a  foreword  by  HUTCH  INS  HAPGOOD 

Containing  the  ten  best  plays  produced  by  the  Province- 
town  Players,  which  are: 

"SUPPRESSED  DESIRES",  George  Cram  Cook  and  Susan  Glaspell. 

"ARIA  DA  CAPO",  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay. 

"COCAINE",  Pendleton  King. 

"NIGHT",  James  Oppenheim. 

"ENEMIES",  Hutchins  Hapgood  and  Neith  Boyce. 

"THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES",  Floyd  Dell. 

"BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF",  Eugene  O'Neill. 

"THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL",  Alice  Rostetter. 

"STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN",  Rita  Wellman. 

"NOT  SMART",  Wilbur  D.  Steele. 

Every  author,  with  one  exception,  has  a  book  or  more  to  his  credit. 
Several  are  at  the  top  of  their  profession. 

Rita  Wellman,  a  Saturday  Evening  Post  star,  has  had  two  or  three 
plays  on  Broadway,  and  has  a  new  novel,  "The  Wings  of  Desire." 

Cook  and  Glaspell  are  well  known — he  for  his  novels,  and  Miss 
Glaspel  r  novels  and  plays. 

Edna  Millay  is  one  of  America's  best  poets.  Steele,  according  to 
O'Brien,  is  America's  best  short-story  writer. 

Oppenheim  has  over  a  dozen  novels,  books  of  poems,  and  essays  to 
his  credit. 

O'Neill  has  a  play  on  Broadway  now:    "The  Emperor  Jones." 

Hutch.  Hapgood  is  an  author  of  note.  A  record  of  the  work  of  the 
most  serious  and  important  of  all  the  new  theatre  movements  in 
America. 

New   York  Sun:    "Tense  and  vivid  little  dramas." 

Dallas  News:  "Uniform  in  excellence  of  workmanship,  varied  in  sub 
ject  matter — the  volume  is  a  distinct  contribution  to  American  dra 
matic  art. 

i2mo.    Net,  $2.50 
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MAY  31  1961 

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